The Horror Of Tarminster Castle
by Ravenclaw Midnight Blue
Summary: Something for the oncoming Halloween! 'The shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland' leads into an investigation for Holmes and Watson of a tragic death at an allegedly-haunted Cumberland castle. What is the truth behind the lies and the dark shadows that lie within?
1. Chapter 1

_**The Horror Of Tarminster Castle**_

Something for the oncoming Halloween! 'The shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland' leads into an investigation for Holmes and Watson of a tragic death at an allegedly-haunted Cumberland castle. What is the truth behind the lies and the dark shadows that lie within?

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the established characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legacy. No money is being made from this story.

 **Introduction:**

' **The Shocking Affair Of The Dutch Steamship Friesland'**

From the records of John H Watson:

The most meticulous devotees of my records of the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes have not failed to note that I have made accessible only a percentage of the total sum that I was party to. There are many reasons for this. A good number were devoid of singular features – which was a consequence of the actions of several mundane criminals and other individuals Holmes found himself up against. Another reason was that I was not as careful with my records as I should have been – some cases I dated erroneously, and some notes I lost over the course of time.

Another explanation is that I felt obliged to honour the confidentiality of the players in some of Holmes's cases – where the changing of names and other details, and the passage of years, would not have been enough to protect them from identification in the public eye had I published the accounts.

However, now – in my retirement and with more time available to me – I feel that I should attempt to recount a most extraordinary assignment that Holmes and I became part of. My friend himself would not look kindly upon my efforts, due to a certain factor that was ultimately revealed at the end of our investigation of the tragic mystery at Tarminster Castle. Nevertheless, I believe that the truth of this story, years after the events described, should now be known – before it becomes too late to write it.

In 'The Adventure of the Norwood Builder', I made reference to the 'shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives'. I will now summarise the points of this case – as they acted as a prelude to the adventure I will later relate.

The 'Friesland' was the vessel that in October 1894 transported the Dutch Foreign Minister on an official visit to Dublin. Holmes had been alerted – via one of his informants in the criminal underworld – that a pretender to the throne of the late Professor Moriarty had undefined designs on the boat in question.

That man was one Isaac Stroud. He was an educated business, with a widespread following along parts of the coastline of Lancashire, where he had been raised. He was officially known of the founder of a quasi-religious sect, 'The Order of Abraxas', based in his adopted city of Liverpool. In reality, the sect was a gathering of individuals – both men and women – who had leanings towards dishonest or criminal activities. Amongst their aims was that of expanding their influence further throughout society, particularly amongst the upper classes, where the profits and potential for power were greatest. And Stroud was especially driven by power.

At the end of Holmes's investigation into the plans of our formidable opponent, we discovered that Stroud himself, plus a couple of his followers, had taken the place of caterers who had been assigned to come onboard the ship at Dublin.

Holmes and I managed to board the Friesland when it had docked at Dublin, using aliases. During the return journey, Stroud and his men took over the ship, with Holmes, myself, and the other passengers taken as hostages. But a pair of British Navy frigates gave pursuit – courtesy of prior arrangements made by Mycroft Holmes within the government. Stroud was forced to turn the ship away from his intended destination of the Lancashire coast, and head north instead.

During the tense events on board, my alias was blown by one of the four Dutch crewmen who were in Stroud's pocket – men who had political reasons for their actions.

Eventually, with the frigates closing in on us in the Irish Sea – and with the Friesland gradually becoming trapped as we approached the Cumberland shore, in the fading light of the evening, Holmes helped to free the hostages, causing chaos and confusion for the enemy. Amidst the fighting that broke out, I was present in the lounge cabin, when Stroud ordered one of his Dutch conspirators to 'blow up the boat' and take us all with him. Horrified, I launched myself at the armed mastermind when Holmes distracted him – and between myself, Holmes, Stroud, and one of his henchmen, we all fought for control of the situation and the steering of the steamship. In the meantime, the renegade Dutchman named Van der Neer set off a crude explosive device in the engine room.

One of the clearest images I still retain in my mind of the moments before the blast is the sight of Holmes battling hand-to-hand with Stroud for possession of the man's pistol – and of the shock on Stroud's regal-looking face as Holmes's punch sent him tumbling through the hatchway and down the stairs leading to the lower quarters and the engine room.

The first deafening explosion engulfed most of the lower deck rapidly. In the desperate situation, Holmes pulled me up from the floor where I had fallen, bruised from the fighting. With no time to waste, we joined the exodus. Finding the last lifeboat already taken by the freed hostages, we both dived into the chilling waters of the Irish Sea along with the last of Stroud's men, the one I had tackled in the fight. Fortunately, Holmes and myself were able to reach the side of the nearby lifeboat, and be pulled to safety by those we had rescued earlier.

The final explosion of the sinking Friesland sent twisted metal flying out in all directions. One such piece struck the head of Stroud's aide, and he slipped senseless from my grip, into the cold, grey depths. He never reappeared.

The affects of the horrific incident are well known to the public. The Dutch Foreign Minister and his wife were saved, but a number of his entourage was killed – either by execution, or by drowning. Only two of Stroud's men were captured. As for Isaac Stroud himself, the facts determined that he had been claimed first by fire, then by the sea.

As a result of wounds, concussion, and exertion – Holmes and myself were escorted to the port of Whitehaven, in order to recover. There, the police and government authorities would later hear our accounts of the Friesland's final voyage.

 **Chapter One:**

 **The Statement Of The Case**

In the early part of November 1894, severe winds and rain affected the north-west of England – blowing trees onto both roads and railway lines. Also, the main track to Liverpool had been flooded in parts. For a time, we were both obliged to stay in a hotel in Whitehaven. Fortunately, Holmes's brother Mycroft had arranged from afar to help cover our expenses – aided by the grateful Dutch government. And the management of the Solway Hotel was honoured to have esteemed guests such as ourselves. We were both placed in the most prestigious suite – which consisted of a private lounge, in addition to a twin bedroom, bathroom and toilet facilities.

It was six days after our arrival in Whitehaven that a most remarkable series of events began to unfold. Little did we know what we were letting ourselves in for, when – shortly after breakfast – there came an urgent knocking at the main door to our hotel rooms.

"Who is it?" I called out, hurriedly dressing myself again. I had been about to take my shave for that morning – whilst Holmes was sitting, cross-legged on his bead, having just injected himself with a shot of cocaine, as was his occasional want when long-term boredom set in. Even after fourteen years, Holmes would not always listen to my medical protestations.

"Please let me in! I must see Mr Holmes!"

To my surprise, it was not the voice of either a guest or a member of the hotel staff, but that of a young lady – a child, in fact. Having made myself presentable, I opened the door to the corridor, and saw a girl of approximately fourteen years of age, dressed neatly in a blue-coloured pinafore and skirts. The design of the elegant material told me she was from a family with wealth.

Her striking blue eyes were wide with agitation and fear – and she gave a quick glance along the corridor. The young face, with its proud-looking features, was framed with long chestnut-brown locks that reached past her shoulders.

"What on earth is the matter?" I spoke firmly, but gently – eager to keep the girl quiet, yet realising that she was afraid of…something.

"I must see Mr Holmes! I may not have long to speak… My governess will be looking for…"

Her breathless, urgent tirade was interrupted by a languid drawl behind me.

"Let her in, Watson," Holmes requested.

And so the young lady entered our guest hotel rooms. My friend ran his eyes up and down at our unexpected guest, reading what he could from her appearance, clothes, and emotional bearing. He gestured for her to take a seat, and she did so. I prudently fetched a glass of water, and the girl accepted it gratefully. Holmes pulled up one of the room's wooden chairs – and I did so also, leaning against the side of the dressing table, for it was clear that we had a potential client. Certainly, our visitor was in need of help.

"Now, judging from the splashes of puddles on your boots, the glow of your face, and your laboured breathing, you have hurried to see me here." Holmes leaned forward, his elbows resting on the knees of his grey suit trousers. "I heard you mention your governess – so I infer that you may have journeyed together into Whitehaven, only for you to bolt for this hotel. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir." The girl nodded. "I discovered your presence in our fair county, thanks to the local newspaper – detailing the events that brought you here. I waited until myself and Miss Kaplan were due to make our next visit to town. I pressed upon my governess to part from me for an hour – whilst I saw to private errands. Once I was alone, I ran over here straight way."

"So what is so important for you to risk Miss Kaplan's anger, by acting in this underhand way?" I enquired. "And who are you, young lady?"

She turned to me and recovered some of her bearing. "My name is Lauren Cavendish. I am the daughter of Lord Cavendish, of Tarminster Castle – which lies on the coastline some miles south of here. I-I take it you are Doctor Watson?"

I inclined my head. "I am, Miss Cavendish. And, of course, my friend here is Sherlock Holmes."

She gave a smile. "I am honoured to meet you both. I only wish the circumstances were better."

Holmes rose and walked over to the window of the room. He glanced outside to look down upon the street running in front of the hotel, and then turned to our guest. "What are the circumstances, Miss Cavendish?"

"The night before last…" Lauren Cavendish's voice faltered, as she fought to control her composure. "…my friend, Violet Boyd, wa-was found dead. In the courtyard in the castle."

Holmes's eyes shone with a gleam of sharp interest. "Watson, I have been rather amiss in reading the local newspaper, whilst I've been mentally composing a little paper on the variations of stains from different British soils. I trust you know something of this matter?"

"Why, yes! The news has just been reported today." I unfolded the newspaper, and quoted from the main article on the front page. "The headline reads _'Tragic Accident at Tarminster Castle'_."

"Pray recite the essential details." Holmes returned to his seat, and – as I had seen him do so many times before – pressed his fingertips together close to his face, and closed his eyes.

"Well, to condense the narrative, the paper reports that there was a gathering of guests for the night, by invitation of Lord Algernon Cavendish – the owner of Tarminster Castle. These guests included the prospective next Tory member of parliament for this constituency – Sir Tristram Blanchard – and Captain Alistair Kendrick of Her Majesty's Calvary.

"After midnight, the body of Miss Violet Boyd was discovered in the courtyard. There had been rain during the preceding afternoon – and the battlements above where Miss Boyd was found were declared to be wet and slippery by those first upon the scene. To quote the report, _'At this stage, it is believed that Miss Boyd's fall from the battlements was an accident, as no one else was present at the time of the young lady's death.'_ "

"And who…was…Miss Violet Boyd?" Holmes asked me, opening his eyes.

"The eighteen-year old daughter of Lord Cavendish's secretary," I replied.

"She was my best friend!" our guest wailed. "She lived in the castle, along with her parents. Please, Mr Holmes! I want to know the truth behind her death!"

"Then you do not believe that it was an accident. That the report is wrong," Holmes put to her.

"There is a lot that the newspaper does not say. Papa would've only al-allow the reporters certain facts regarding what was happening that night."

"But you can tell us more." I looked directly at Miss Cavendish.

She nodded. "In the first place, I should explain that my mother died six years ago, of ill-health. Papa has never really recovered from the loss – and some months ago, my gov-governess has encouraged him to develop an interest in spiritualism and the possibility of the dead returning – in accordance with her own professed beliefs. Tarminster Castle has borne a long tradition of being haunted – though I myself have never experienced anything more than the occasional presence, some years ago."

"Ha!" Holmes gave a snort of derision. I already knew of my friend's opinions in regard to anything pertaining to the supernatural. Indeed, one of our most perplexing – and famous – cases led us to investigate the spectre of the Hound of the Baskervilles, the results of which are well-known to those who have read my account of that grim series of events.

Miss Cavendish, however, stared at Holmes through her hooded eyelids with a perplexed look.

"I apologise for my conduct. Pray continue." Holmes gestured to our guest. "You spoke of your father withholding information from the newspapers reporters."

The young lady nodded briskly. "The gath-gathering of friends and acquaintances that night was for the pur-pose of holding a séance and a ghost vigil," she explained to use, still stuttering occasionally. She took another sip of her water and gradually became more composed. "Violet and my-myself were excluded from attending, on papa's orders. We always had been – but Violet had recently turned eighteen, and had hoped to be included in the proceedings on this occasion.

"And so, we were meant to be in our rooms, in bed. Violet would not stand to be excluded, however – and we had already conspired that day to wander the castle at night, dressed in black gowns that would hide our faces. Working together, we gave one of the guests, Captain Kendrick, a scare when he was outside during part of the ghostly vigil. That was about an hour before midnight.

"I should mention that the castle, although it has been renovated in stages during the last ten years, is still ruined in part. The north side, and the Keep, in particular has crumbling stonework – and some parts are marked with wooden barriers that workmen have erected, on papa's instructions to them. Violet wanted to sneak off around the area – she being older and more daring than me. But I was wary, having once slipped on the crumbling stonework next to the Keep, a month or so ago. That was why papa brought in the workmen again – to prevent another accident."

"And what happened later?" Holmes peeped keenly at Miss Cavendish.

"Violet and I split up, in our ghostly garb – to tease those moving around the castle. We both knew all the ins and outs, and the castle walkways – and I was able myself to give Violet's father the slip, after he spotted my fleeting form and became alarmed." A smile – the first – appeared on our guest's lips. Then her face turned serious again. "Violet and I later got together – when I realised the first vigil was over. Everyone else had gone inside. We knew they would be out again for the next vigil – but not when. In any case, Violet and I separated at quarter to midnight – and we agreed to meet in the courtyard, beneath the clock at the gatehouse, at quarter past.

"It was just after midnight when I began to get cold. The damp air was rising from the lawn next to the courtyard, after the rain from earlier that day. I could feel a chill from the sea beyond the west curtain wall, too. I was concerned about Violet, hoping that she was taking care around the north-west tower – the Keep. Apart from the sea waves, it was quiet, Mr Holmes. So dark and quiet! I was hiding just inside the chapel, underneath the west curtain wall. Then suddenly I heard a scream which chilled me far more than the cold air. It was Violet – I am certain of that.

"For a long moment, sir, I was frozen. Then I ran – realising that the cry came from somewhere around the Keep. As I emerged and reached the edge of the courtyard, I heard her scream again, and… Oh, dear lord! Mr Holmes… I was just in time to see Violet hit the ground!"

Miss Cavendish burst into tears and reached for a handkerchief inside the sleeve of her blouse. Holmes stood up quickly, and squeezed our guest's free hand with his own, as he did what he could to compose her without actually speaking.

After a minute, Miss Cavendish had recovered enough to answer my friend's next questions – which he put to her carefully, and with tact.

"You say you heard Miss Boyd scream twice?"

"Yes… I-I did. I am positive!"

"So far, so good. Now, if you can cast your mind back, Miss Cavendish… What period of time elapsed between those screams?"

"Oh…! It would be…something like fifteen seconds, Mr Holmes!"

"And you actually saw Miss Boyd land upon the ground?"

"Yes. Upon the grass at the edge of the cour-courtyard – underneath the nor-north ramparts!"

"Your clarity is admirable! What happened next?"

"I froze rigid for a long moment. I found myself unable to scream, sir. Next thing, I rushed straight over to Violet. I could tell she was dead – there was just enough light to-to see that the grass around the crown of her head was wet with her blood. And…in her right hand was a jewel. This jewel!"

Miss Cavendish reached into the inside pocket of her overcoat and produced a glittering ruby, which she held out on her trembling palm. With raised eyebrows and a low whistle, Holmes plucked it from her, and examined it against the sunlight from the window.

I put the pen down from my note-taking. "Miss Cavendish, was there anyone around in the courtyard?" I asked.

"Yes… I was about to tell you…" Her voice wavered. "I pr-prised this ruby out of Violet's hand. I thought I recognised it as being a part of the family jewels, and so I held onto it. Then I saw a shadow move, on the north ramparts where Violet must have fallen from. I took fright, and ran off – heading straight for my bedroom. Once I had locked myself in, I broke down."

I nodded gravely to her. "Quite understandably so, my dear," I replied.

Holmes was standing before Lauren Cavendish now – the ruby in his hand. "You say you believe this belongs to your family?"

"To my father, yes – it used to be worn by my mother. It was one of his gifts to her, I understand. It is called the Wexford Ruby. It is one of a pair – the other being the Wicklow Ruby. But that other one is no longer part of the castle's estate."

"I see. And you stated that your mother is no longer alive. I take it you have no brothers or sisters to confide in."

"None."

"Has the jewel been confirmed as missing from the family vault?"

"I have heard no such news, Mr Holmes! In the night, not long after I had retreated to my bed, papa knocked on my bedroom door to break the news to me of Violet's death. There has been considerable activity ever since breakfast yesterday – what with the guests being stunned by the news, and the reporters arriving. It has been horrid. But papa has said nothing about anything being missing from the vaults. Indeed, the only people who should have access to the vault are my father and his secretary. I do not know how Violet came upon this ruby! But I do know that Mr Boyd, the secretary – Violet's father – was due to conduct a periodic inventory of the vault with papa. In light of what's happened…"

"…possibly no check has been carried out," Holmes concluded. "And you did not tell your father of your discovery?"

"I could not, Mr Holmes, without exposing my misdemeanours with Violet! Being outside, dressed as ghosts, when we were forbidden to leave our rooms by my father and Violet's parents… Papa is a good man, but strict. And I sometimes think that he considers my governess to be more important than…"

She broke off as I rose from my chair. Somewhat embarrassed, I bowed my head to our guest. "Do excuse me, Miss Cavendish. I need to use…" I pointed to the door that led to the toilet and bathroom.

"Oh! Please don't mind me."

I saw Holmes's lips twitch in amusement – then, as I pulled the door to, I heard him say: "Please tell me about the castle household, Miss Cavendish. And who came to Tarminster Castle for this 'ghost vigil'…"

I had to spend some minutes in the toilet, then the bathroom. It was whilst I was washing my hands that I heard a sharp rapping at the main door to our set of rooms. Holmes answered it – and I heard a woman's voice, riddled with indignation and passion.

"There you are, young lady! I have been looking for you! It's time to come with me."

"Miss Kaplan! I am sorry. I had to…"

"Had to do what…?"

"Good morning, madam," Holmes interrupted, in an attempt to pacify our latest newcomer. "Your young charge has been most distraught by her friend's death. She felt that there might be reason for me to…"

"What reason could there be for you to be involved, sir? It was an accident Everyone, including Miss Violet's parents have accepted that."

"Perhaps…" Holmes fell silent. In the meantime, I had turned off the tap and now stood as silently as possible. I thought carefully. I knew Holmes would not want to reveal anything in detail to the governess that Lauren Cavendish had stated to us in confidence.

"I am sorry, Mr Holmes. I have been so eager to see you, since you were in the vicinity, that I've allowed my imagination to run away after Violet's sudden death. Please forgive me," our young visitor announced.

"Certainly, Miss Cavendish. I will dismiss the issue from my mind. Good day to you both."

"Good day, Mr Holmes!" And with those final, stern words, the governess left our presence – taking Miss Cavendish with her.

With the coast now clear, I walked back into the main room and addressed Holmes. He was lighting a cigarette.

"Upon my word," said I. "And what of the ruby?"

Holmes took it from behind the cushion of his chair. "It is here. Thankfully, Miss Kaplan did not see it – otherwise, she may well have taken it, along with our prospective client!"

"An underage client, at that."

"But a brave and perceptive young lady, Watson! She told me plenty when you had to relieve yourself. And yet, I fancy, she did not realise the value of everything she told us. However, first of all, did you believe her story?"

"Why, yes. Incredible as it was, Miss Cavendish was struck me as a genuine witness. And you, Holmes?"

"Myself, also. But now let us start to examine what she told us. What strikes you as most singular about Miss Cavendish's account?"

I looked over my jottings carefully as I sat down.

"She heard her friend scream twice. Two cries – around fifteen seconds apart."

"Precisely! Why was that? I suppose that it is possible that Violet Boyd slipped on the ramparts and cried out, but held onto some support before falling to her death. Alternatively, was she startled by this shadow that our new friend saw – only to scream again as she fell? I need to examine the scene for myself, Watson!"

I tapped at my notes with my forefinger. "How did Miss Boyd come to be in possession of that ruby? It was in her hand when Miss Cavendish took it from her."

" _Prised_ it from Miss Boyd. That was the term the young lady used. The deceased was clinging to that jewel when she fell. It was important enough for her to not let go of it – even in her final moments on this earth!"

"By Jove, Holmes! You are right! If we can only identify who was the moving shadow that Miss Cavendish saw, we could be identifying a murderer. It's likely to be manslaughter, at the least!"

Holmes was now standing by the window, carefully peering around the curtain. I joined him, to see a tall, smartly-dressed woman, aged somewhere in her thirties, pulling at the hand of Miss Cavendish as they briskly headed along the road leading to the centre of Whitehaven. In spite of her feathered hat, I saw a glimpse of curling reddish-brown hair.

"But we do not have _carte blanche_ to investigate, Watson. The best thing to do first, I think, would be to discuss matters with the local police." Holmes walked back to the centre of the room, where he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "Then there is the matter of Sir Tristram Blanchard."

"Ah yes… I saw a gleam in your eyes when I read out his name from that newspaper article," I replied. "What do you know of him?"

"Do you recall Sir George Burnwell?"

After some thought, I responded. "Yes! He was involved in the case I wrote down at 'The Beryl Coronet'! Did you ever track him – or his accomplice – down?"

"No. I never had reason to. But I did know something of his social circle, years ago. Sir Tristram Blanchard was – and for all I know, may still be – a close friend of Burnwell's. They were certainly of similar temperament, before Burnwell went into hiding. And now I learn Sir Tristram's aiming for parliament! Ha! Blanchard's name has come to my attention more than once in the past few years. He's a card shark, and a mischief maker, Watson! But come. Let us see the local constabulary and find out what we can." With that, Holmes adjusted his collar in front of the mirror, and retrieved his coat. I did the same.

We were in for a surprise at the police station. In one of the cellars, where the amiable Inspector Mackenzie led us to, there laid the body stretched out on a stone slab, with the obligatory sheet covering it. Both Holmes and I gave a start when we saw a familiar-looking figure sat on a wooden stool next to the deceased Miss Boyd. At our approach, the man raised tear-stained eyes to us. He quickly rose as he made himself presentable – clearly just as taken aback to see us, as we were to see him.

"Why, Inspector Hopkins!" Holmes cried out, shaking the hand of the Scotland Yard detective. "What brings you to Cumberland? Surely the train line to London isn't clear yet."

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! I wasn't aware you would be here. As for me, I was working on a major case in Newcastle, when I received the wire to come to Whitehaven."

"And am I right in thinking that you know the deceased?" Holmes narrowed his gaze.

"Yes, sir. The mother of Miss Boyd here, is my sister. I am Violet Boyd's uncle!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

 **Messages From Afar?**

After we had expressed our deep condolences to Stanley Hopkins, the local inspector with us interrupted the solemn mood. "Ahh found out, through the girl's parents, that Mr Hopkins was a relative. Ahh felt he should come."

"The local press state this is merely a regrettable accident, Inspector Mackenzie," announced Holmes. "Is that your opinion, also?"

"Well, that's what they seem to think at the castle – Lord Cavendish an' all. Our old doctor, too – Dr Phelps. But he's losin' his sight, I'm sure. He examined the body – but he was quick aboot it, if you ask me. He's due for retirement – and at present, we've got no one to replace him. Ahh reckon he just wants an easy life."

"So you do not value his opinion." Holmes looked keenly at Mackenzie. "Have you seen the body yourself?"

"Only briefly. If it's na trouble to you, Doctor Watson, you're welcome to look for yourself."

I considered this, and then nodded. "Since I'm here, I might as well. How do you feel about this, Inspector Hopkins?"

"I have already examined her," he answered gravely. "Please go ahead, gentlemen."

Turning back the cover of the shroud, I examined the body of the young, raven-haired woman whilst Holmes, Hopkins, and Mackenzie gathered round. Donning surgeon's gloves provided by the local inspector, I carefully felt and scrutinised the marks on Miss Violet Boyd. Holmes lent me his magnifying glass – before later taking it back and using it himself. Every now and then he gave a little subdued cry of interest.

Finally, I looked across to the other men and shook my head, sighing.

Holmes's eyes gleamed. "It won't do – will it, Watson?" he ventured.

"No, Holmes. It will not. First of all, let me say what there is to be seen. Even with her eyes having been closed after her discovery, the expression left on Miss Boyd's face is one of sheer terror, and there is evidence of bruising to one side of her face. The bruising did not come from the fall, though – her skull is cracked on top, towards the back. That was the initial point of impact. However, the lady's fall was a heavy one – she broke her right leg, and couple of ribs on the same on the same side of her body. Those were the secondary points of her impact upon the courtyard."

"And there are marks around her left wrist," Holmes added.

"…where someone apparently grabbed her." I nodded. "This scratch mark on her left arm…," I indicated to Holmes, Hopkins, and Mackenzie, "…shows that she pulled herself out of this other person's grasp."

"So, in likelihood, she was apprehended by someone – and she struggled, either before or after being struck around her cheek. If this was on the castle ramparts, as where she apparently was, then this struggle could be why she fell!" Hopkins snapped his fingers. He turned to Mackenzie. "Does this make sense to you, Inspector?"

"Oh, aye. I follow what you are saying, gentlemen. Ahh just wanted the opinion of a good doctor."

Holmes smiled. "Thank you for your time, Mackenzie. I wonder if Inspector Hopkins, Doctor Watson, and I could have some privacy to discuss matters?"

"Na problem. Call at the main desk upstairs, if you need me." The amiable Scotsman left us.

"Now…," said Holmes, turning to Stanley Hopkins, once the mortuary door was shut. "I have something in confidence to tell you, my dear inspector. Regarding a visitor Dr Watson and I received, this morning…"

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

When the tale was told, Hopkins sat down on the stool, his face pale. "Then there _are_ grounds for investigating my niece's death further!" he declared.

"We have no official client," Holmes murmured.

"But the evidence on Miss Boyd…!" I objected, as I removed and disposed of the surgical gloves, before washing my hands.

"…is certainly suggestive, Watson. I want to look at the scene of the accident and meet the people who were present that night, engaged in their ghostly vigils and séance."

"Mackenzie has indicated to me that Lord Cavendish will not tolerate much more of a police presence, Mr Holmes," Hopkins announced. "And he is certainly the type of man who would regard you as an interfering upstart. As for the guests, they have been advised to stay in the local area, until the roads and railways are clear from the effects of the recent bad weather. The lanes around the mountains to the east are also blocked in some parts. Sir Tristram has his house here in Whitehaven – whilst Captain Kendrick lives at nearby Egremont.

"Where does that leave us?" I questioned.

Hopkins thought carefully. "We can speak further to Mackenzie. He was called out to the castle, along with Dr Phelps, after my niece was found," the Scotland Yard inspector declared. "Mackenzie conducted a brief search of the castle – without turning up anything. However, he knows the layout of the building."

"So he can draw out a plan for us?" Holmes asked. "Good! Any other ideas, Hopkins?"

The inspector rubbed his chin, and then stood up. "We can speak to the other guest – the medium! She is staying at the Solway Hotel, at the edge of town."

Holmes laughed. "Our lodgings, no less! Come gentlemen. This should be interesting."

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

After obtaining a detailed sketch map of Tarminster Castle, thanks to the sound memory of Inspector Mackenzie, Holmes, Hopkins, and myself set off for the Solway Hotel.

We found the medium, Clarissa Lebrun, in the main lounge of the hotel. Aged in her fifties, she was a plump woman of average height, with ash-blonde hair that dropped to her shoulders in a series of curls. She was attired in a rich blue dress and a woolen shawl draped across her shoulders – and upon seeing us, she got to her feet with the aid of her walking stick, before giving us a bow of acknowledgement. The lady who was with her bade her excuses and left.

Hopkins took off his gloves and approached Miss Lebrun. He shook her hand as he spoke. "Madame, I am Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard. And these gentlemen with me…"

"…are none other than Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, I believe," the lady responded. She shook her hands in turn. Her voice bore a genuine French accent. I had half-expected her to a charlatan in name and nationality, as well as profession.

"Indeed, Madame! We are here to ask you some questions relating to the death of Miss Violet Boyd." Hopkins took a seat opposite the lady, as she gestured for us to sit. I warmed my hands in front of the roaring log fire, before pulling up a wooden chair.

"No doubt you already knew of our presence in the hotel," I put to Miss Lebrun.

"True, doctor – but I sensed we were due to meet."

"Really, Miss Lebrun?" Holmes remarked. "Perhaps you can tell what we wish to know, without us asking the questions!"

The medium leaned back in her padded chair, apparently unperturbed by my friend's challenge. "I know your views on the supernatural, Mr Holmes – I have read of some of your adventures. You expect me to be a fraud – or, at best, deluded. _Est-ce pas ainsi?_ But I have had many years of dealing with spirits. Of having experiences that I believe cannot be explained by science – and yet I cannot offer proof. You have to be confronted with a taste of the spirit world in order to know it. It is subjective.

"But that is not important, right now. You believe that Miss Boyd's death was not an accident – contrary to what the party in the castle has told the police."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, and straightened himself in his seat. He kept his steely gaze locked with the lady's. "Tell us what you believe, Miss Lebrun."

"I have my misgivings, Mr Holmes. My spirit guide was warning me of danger, whilst I was sitting at the séance. But I am not certain of what caused Miss Boyd to fall into the courtyard."

"What led to the ghostly vigil in the first place?" I asked, curious.

"It is not the first time such activity has been undertaken at the castle, doctor," Miss Lebrun announced. "However, it was the first occasion that I, or any professional medium, was invited by Lord Cavendish. His lordship is a believer in spiritualism. During the past few months, every few weeks or so, a séance has been held by the group – which consisted of Lord Cavendish, one or two of his staff, and some invited guests. This occasion was the first time a vigil was held, in addition to the séance."

"So it was his lordship who had the idea, and invited you?" Hopkins scribbled in his notebook.

"He initially started off these séances, I believe – and it was his idea to invite me. However, it was his governess – Miss Kaplan – who arranged the date of the séance. She too is interested in the possibilities of the dead returning to communicate with the living."

Holmes wrapped one long led around the other, and locked the fingers of his hands together. "Describe to me, if you will Miss Lebrun, each of those involved in the séance and ghost vigils," he instructed.

"Inspector Mackenzie has already provided me with details, Mr Holmes," Hopkins began.

"Thank you, Inspector. But if Miss Lebrun is really the bearer of abilities beyond our present science, perhaps her impressions of people are deeper."

"Very well, sir. I will hold nothing back." The medium's lips twitched with amusement. "Firstly, there is Lord Algernon Cavendish himself. I will describe him as a stout man, who has a big, black beard – who, I believe, has recently passed his fiftieth year. He, of course, inherited the castle from his father. He is a widower – having lost his wife, Lady Eleanor, some six years ago. He has one child – Lauren. She, I saw only briefly last night. Her father had forbidden her and Miss Boyd from being a part of the evening's activities.

"From my observations – and a comment from my spirit guide – I could tell that there seems to be a kinship between Lord Cavendish and the governess, Miss Giselle Kaplan. She is a charming-enough lady – at least a decade younger than his lordship, I would say. She acted as hostess for the night in question. I believe she has been employed at the castle for the last five years.

"The cook – Mrs Lillian Vaughan – has been in the castle employ since 1890. She was also present at the séance. I sensed that Lord Cavendish did not want her there - but he allowed her presence, in order to build up the energies for the spirits to be challenged.

"Mr Geoffrey Boyd is the father of the deceased girl, and…" Miss Lebrun paused, and pressed a hand to her temple. _"Il est maintenant…?"_ she spoke quietly, apparently to herself.

There was a glance between the three of us who were listening – then Clarissa Lebrun spoke again, dropping her hand and carrying on from where she had left off. "Mr Boyd is Lord Cavendish's secretary – a rather small, plain man, who struck me of being overworked by his employer. Mrs Boyd – your sister, Inspector Hopkins – struck me as being a likeable woman, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the movement of the glass at the séance. There was also Sir Tristram Blanchard – a fat, rather-pompous, but elegantly-dressed man. Also attending was Captain Alistair Kendrick – a quiet, reserved individual, who I learned has been to India and the Middle-East in his duty. I did not see much of the staff – but I remember the butler, Hawker. He struck me as rather…unsettling, with that prominent hooked nose and those beady eyes of his."

Silence fell and filled the air for a long moment. Hopkins broke it. "How…? How did you know of my relationship to Mrs Boyd?" he asked the lady.

"Rosamund – my spirit guide – has just told me, Inspector," she answered, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. She leaned forward in her seat and angled her face at Holmes. "There will be another séance and vigil, Mr Holmes. In two days time. I have already been invited to it. Miss Kaplan has suggested to Mrs Boyd that perhaps they can try to contact the spirit of Miss Boyd – to reassure her that her soul is at rest. As I understand it, the same individuals that I have described will all be at the castle again."

"That is interesting," Holmes remarked drily. "I wish to see inside the castle, and test what alibis these people may hold…"He fell short as the lady tilted her head again, and cupped her ear.

"What's that, Rosamund? Go on… I see… Thank you, dear." Miss Lebrun regarded us all, "Rosamund has made a suggestion. I can tell Lord Cavendish that I will bring another expert on the paranormal with me. Someone who will attend the séance. Maybe that will help, Mr Holmes. A message can be sent to the castle quickly enough – the coast road to there has not been affected by the terrible weather, unlike those further to the south."

"Ha!" Holmes barked. "I may have the minimum of a disguise in my suitcase. Watson here has accused me in the past of being a clairvoyant – when I have merely demonstrated my ability to reason and deduce to a trained degree."

I smiled at the memory. Was Holmes now going to play the part of a psychic himself? That would be irony indeed…

"Wait!" said I. "Will Miss Kaplan be there at the séance?"

"Provided that she does not lose her nerve this time, yes," Miss Lebrun replied. "She wants to prove herself to be brave. She fainted at the last one, thanks to that dark presence I detected."

"She and I have already met…" Holmes turned thoughtfully in my direction.

"But she has not seen me!" I realised, with a start.

"Then perhaps, my dear Watson, you can be our Trojan Horse!" My friend's eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief.

"I can instruct you, so that you will appear to be a fellow authority on spiritualism, doctor." Miss Lebrun smiled. "And I have more to tell about the castle itself…"

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

Despite my misgivings, I eventually agreed to the plan. Hopkins had listened to our conversation in silence, whilst taking notes. Now I left him and Holmes to engage in deep conversation, as I joined Miss Lebrun in her hotel room, to be schooled in my new role.

She had a couple of books with her, regarding the history and practice of spiritualism, and I was allowed to borrow them. Miss Lebrun also verbally taught me a wealth of information on the subject – and it was arranged for me to go away, revise, and come back later to her room to be tested – 'examined' as it were. I struggled a little by the time it came to my test, but made a mental note of which aspects to brush up on.

As I prepared to leave her room for the second time, I noticed that the lady was sitting shock-still, her head turned away and her eyes distant.

"Are you quite all right, Miss Lebrun?" I asked her.

She faced me with a sudden motion. "You must not keep blaming yourself, Dr Watson. It was not your fault," the medium announced.

"Blame myself…? For what?"

"For your wife's death. Rosamund says that Mary is with her now, in the spirit world. Your wife is at peace, and happy – along with your baby son."

"Wh-what!? This… This is too much, Miss Lebrun!" I spluttered.

" _Je suis désolé_. But your wife wants the message passed onto you. Although your life of marriage was short, Mary loves you still. When it is your time to leave this world, she will be there for you. Mary also says that although you posthumously gave him a different name, she has named him Harold – after your favourite uncle, I have been told."

"Miss Lebrun… No doubt you know of my wife's death, as well as her name! I wrote of those facts in my cases with Holmes…"

"Ah yes. 'The Empty House' – was it not? You merely put to paper that Holmes had heard of 'my own sad bereavement' – you did not say that it was Mrs Watson who had died, or that she had passed away due to complications from childbirth. Or that, had he lived, you would have had a son."

"This… This cannot be…"

The lady shrugged her shoulders, smiling sadly. "Then tell yourself that I am able to read your mind, if that is easier for you to accept, Doctor."

I began to shake. Chills ran along my spine, and I gripped the back of one of the chairs for support. My voice, when it came out, was curt but controlled.

"You will excuse me, I am sure."

"I apologise, Doctor Watson. But hopefully this will convince you that my…ability…is real. I will need your trust tonight."

I left the room abruptly, and returned to the quarters occupied by myself and Holmes. My friend gave me a quizzical look, glancing at my swiftly-moving figure through the blue fog of tobacco from his pipe, as I blinked aside angry tears and strode across to the bedroom – slamming the door shut behind me.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

Some time later, after I had recovered my composure, Holmes and I were both sat in front of the fireplace in our private lounge once more. Despite a window having been opened, the air still bore a lingering trace of Holmes's tobacco.

Holmes was showing me a series of photographs, which portrayed some strange sets of writing found on a couple of the walls within Tarminster Castle, the night before Miss Boyd's death.

"Miss Lebrun gave these to me, when you were in the bedroom revising for your test, Watson. She ordered a set from the independent photographer. Although it was already organised, it seems that these curious messages gave added impetus to the last séance being held.

I looked carefully at the three photos that had been passed to me. "These messages seem crude, Holmes," I remarked.

"So they may seem. Nevertheless, they were etched into the stonework of two walls facing each other, within a corridor known as the 'Castellan's Walk'. It is in the oldest part of the castle. Note that, Watson. It is part of the area that Lord Cavendish wanted renovating. And the corridor is not very far from where Violet Boyd met her end."

"Our medium helper has told me these messages would have materialised because the workmen – in starting their work – have disturbed the spirits of the castle," I put to Holmes.

"So I have heard from the lady herself. That may be her professional opinion. It is certainly not mine." Holmes gave a wry smile. "Not that I have formed my opinions about the case itself, as yet."

I studied the writing more closely. The words were made up of a curious mixture of italics and normal 'font' letters – with further letters being so deeper etched, that they could be called bold text. And although many of the letters were lowercase, the few capital letters present did not always appear in their grammatically-correct places. The first photograph showed the following:

 **P** ur _e_ _rAge_ _I_ s **ay** Tor **ment** _To_ mY fOe

The 'P' of 'Pure' was bolded, and the 'e' was in italics – as was 'rAge' and 'I'. The last two letters of 'say' were bolded – as was 'ment', in 'Torment'. 'To' was in italics.

The second photograph bore another message:

he c _a_ ge T **o** rtur _e_ **D** h _E_ **r** _l_ o _st_ _n_ **o** _re_ S _t_ _C_

The 'a' of 'cage' was in italics, as was the 'e' in 'tortured'. In the same, grim word, the 'o' and 'D' were in bold – as was the 'r' in 'her'. The out-of-place 'E' in 'her' was italicized – as was the 'l' and 'st' of 'lost', leaving the 'o' as normal font. All of the remaining letters were slanted into italics – apart from the 'o' of 'no' (which was instead in bold font, and the 'S' in 'rest' was in normal font).

The words in the third photograph were the most disturbing:

 _MY_ fO _e_ k _ill_ e **d** **i H**. **in** _W_ **h** At Stor **M** **g** _et_ _ou_ **t**!

'MY' was in italics, as was the 'e' of 'foe', and 'ill' in 'killed'. The 'd' of 'killed' was bolded – as were the 'i', 'H' and 'in' that followed on. The 'W' of 'what' was in italics, as were 'et' and 'ou' within 'get out!' – whilst the 'h' of 'what' was bolded. So too was 'M' at the end of 'storm', and the remaining letters of the ominous last two words.

"My word, Holmes…" I shook my head, bewildered. "What are these supposed to be?"

"According to Miss Lebrun, these messages - which appeared on the resurfaced stone walls in this deserted corridor – are indicative of spirits attempting to communicate with the living. Angry, perhaps, that parts of the castle walls were to be knocked down," Holmes announced with a sardonic smile. " 'i H' is apparently a reference to someone of the previous dynasty of the castle's owners – the Hennesseys." He yawned. "Personally, it seems clear to me that someone of the breathing persuasion has etched these scrawling upon the fresh surface of the walls – and has done carefully done so with a knife. The mystery is why."

"No doubt," said I. "So, if I am to go into the castle under false pretences, what is the plan?"

"I have talked the situation over with Miss Lebrun – she will inform Lord Cavendish that at the next séance, she will be arriving at the castle during the day. Your identity is that of Johan W. Mathison, a member of a scientifically-inclined research society. You will be interviewing his lordship and as many of the others who are relevant to the investigation."

"Ideally, I should be checking the alibis of those who were around the castle on the night Violet Boyd died," I declared.

Holmes nodded and handed me some sheets of paper. "Here is a copy of everyone's alibi around the time the death, Watson – courtesy of Inspector Mackenzie. Also, a copy of the Scotsman's plan of the castle for your reference. At the moment of the tragedy, Miss Lebrun was known to be still in the dining room, where the séance was held earlier. This, in addition to her slowness in walking and climbing stairs, would rule her out from being directly involved in Miss Boyd's death. But do check their alibis, Watson – discretely. And find out any additional information which can help us!"

I nodded in understanding, hoping that I was up to the challenge set before me. "And what will you be doing, Holmes?"

"I will come to that in a moment. First of all, you will be entering the castle – by carriage – during the afternoon of the day after tomorrow. Miss Lebrun will travel with you, and will act as your introductory guide to the inhabitants and visitors of Tarminster Castle. During the evening, his lordship will receive another, unexpected visitor. Officially, the carriage from the police station will hold only Inspector Mackenzie, who will tell Lord Cavendish and the staff that there is an escaped prisoner on the loose in the vicinity of the nearby western lakes – and that the police are working with Sherlock Holmes to track him down."

"Another diversion tactic, Holmes? In reality, you will be doing what?"

"Excellent, Watson! As the years pass, you are becoming wiser as to my ways. As for myself, I and our good friend Stanley Hopkins will slip out of Mackenzie's carriage – unseen by anyone. Then we will hide ourselves in the shadows of the castle. If you wish to patrol the courtyard - alone, when it is dark – then either Hopkins or I may safely converse with you."

"And the purpose of this secret maneuvering?"

"I wish to test out one or two theories. Also, I would like to see for myself the places where those 'ghostly messages' were found – as well as survey the site where the unfortunately Miss Boyd was found. Soon, Watson, the game will be afoot!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

 **A Meeting With Lord Cavendish**

And so our plan proceeded. Miss Lebrun's arrangements with Lord Cavendish to bring me along to the next séance, two days later, were accepted. Around three o'clock, on a cloudy afternoon, a horse-drawn carriage took the medium and myself along the coast road south from Whitehaven, and into the large, rectangular courtyard of the worn-looking, grey-bricked Tarminster Castle. I made sure that the false, thin beard that Holmes had persuaded me to wear was firmly in place, before alighting with Miss Lebrun. I assisted the lady in her walk to the main doors of the modern wing of the castle; whilst she used her walking stick in her other hand.

At the double doors, a small man aged in his forties greeted us. He was dressed in a smart brown suit. His round face was set in a subdued expression, behind a pair of spectacles, and topped by a thinning layer of pale-brown hair.

"Good day to you, Miss Lebrun and Mr Mathison." He bowed and shook our hands lightly.

"I am glad to see you once more, Monsieur Boyd," Miss Lebrun respectfully replied. "How are you and Belinda coping?"

"Belinda is still distraught, naturally. But she is finding some comfort in the thought that Violet's spirit still goes on, as you would say. Where her spirit is now, is however, another matter." Mr Boyd turned to me. "Welcome to Tarminster Castle, Mr Mathison. I am Geoffrey Boyd, Lord Cavendish's personal secretary – and the father of poor Violet. I understand from Miss Lebrun that you are very much interested in examining the séances and vigils that have been taking place here."

"Indeed I am, Mr Boyd," said I. "Pardon my manners, but I am surprised that you are still attending your duties, given your recent loss."

The secretary shrugged. "I am not a man who wallows in despair, Mr Mathison. I have been wounded in life, by the death of other lost loved ones, naturally – but the truth is his lordship still needs me here, and I need to keep myself busy, so that I don't dwell on…on the matter. However, if Miss Lebrun is able – via her mediumship – to ascertain how Violet met her death, and what she doing on the ramparts, dressed in that ridiculous black sheet…, then I will gain some comfort, I suppose." His eyes seemed to drift as he spoke, and I realised that he was gazing at the ramparts behind me. I turned round to look at the spot, where the curtain wall met a gaunt, crumbling tower. Something about the sight of it, set against the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon, made me shiver.

From the main road, the castle had held a dark, foreboding look to it, underneath the gloomy clouds. Come night time, I suspected that the surrounding towers and curtain wall walkways would seem even more gloomy and unwelcoming. And now, staring at the grim, mottled, hard stone walls that had borne witness to the recent death of a young woman, I could well imagine that the semi-ruined castle was home to things that were beyond human understanding.

"That was the place, wasn't it?" I asked Mr Boyd, wanting his confirmation.

He nodded solemnly – then abruptly pulled himself to. "Follow me, please." And with that, he led myself and my companion into the grand entrance hallway, with its stone tiled floor, the high wooden-panelled roof, and an assortment of decorative features – suits of armour, the preserved heads of hunted stags and boars, old leather-bound books lying open within display cases, and the like. Here, the secretary rang a bell – and before long, a tall, thin man, dressed in butler's garb walked in from the servants' quarters. He was a rather strange-looking individual, with a penetrating pair of grey eyes, and a sharply-defined hooked nose. This, along with his spindly appearance, inadvertently made me mentally compare him to a bizarrely-shaped bird of prey.

"Yes, sir?" The butler spoke with a reedy voice.

"Hawker – please arrange for the cases of Miss Lebrun and Mr Mathison to be transported to their rooms. They are, at present, both just staying for the night," Boyd announced. He turned back to us. "Do you wish to inspect your rooms now – or see his lordship?"

"We will both be delighted to speak to Lord Cavendish now – if he is available," I answered, seeing Miss Lebrun's timely nod.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

We were introduced to Lord Cavendish in his private study. He was a stout-looking man, about five feet seven inches tall, dressed in a dark suit and tie. His most distinguishing visual feature was his thick black beard – grizzled with grey specks – which reached down to the top of his chest.

When the three of us entered, his lordship was in conversation with another immaculately-attired man. The latter was not far off six foot tall, but with a barrel-like figure that was larger than the castle owner. His blond locks were cut short and swept back with hair cream – framing a wide, fat face that grew larger whenever the man smiled. Unfortunately - whenever I saw it - the expression conveyed to me not warmth, but smugness.

This was Sir Tristram Blanchard.

We were introduced, and Mr Boyd left us. His lordship's handshake was firm, whilst the larger man's was looser, possibly due to the fact that his hands were so enormous. "So…," began Blanchard. His voice was cultured – but the pale-blue eyes were piggish, and something about him made me shudder inside. "…you are the latest addition to our nocturnal activities, Mr Mathison. Come to see if we can conjure something worthy of reporting, eh?"

"That is correct, Sir Tristram." I nodded, and directed my attention to his lordship. At his invitation, we all sat down. Between myself and Miss Lebrun, we explained the reasons for my attendance, and that I would be watching tonight's séance. At the same time, I announced to my audience, I wanted to investigate the possibility that perhaps a ghost had caused Violet Boyd to fall to her death.

"At the séance that night, I was picking up indications from a male spirit that there was danger," Miss Lebrun explained.

"This would be the same man who was apparently behind those remarkable messages Harriet discovered, I assume?" Lord Cavendish directed the question at my medium companion.

"That is my belief. I have not confirmed that. It is something I hope to find out, via tonight's séance." Miss Lebrun smiled.

"And what _is_ the meaning of those messages?" I asked. "Miss Lebrun here told me you had a theory, Lord Cavendish." I took out my notepad; ready to write what I deemed could be of use to Holmes.

"I do indeed have a theory, Mr Mathison." His lordship rested his back against his plush leather seat, on the far side of the sturdy oak desk. He leveled his steady gaze upon me. "There has, you will no doubt know, been a history of alleged activity carried out by spirits at the castle for some time – sudden unexplained chills and shadowy presences felt by servants and guests, occasionally voices, also. However, knowing who or what the spirits were – and why they were present – was a persistent problem. This is why I started up the séances about half a year ago."

"This was borne out of your interest, I understand."

"Both the interest of myself and Miss Kaplan, really. She is the governess to my delightful daughter, Lauren. And I suppose that Miss Lebrun would have told you that Lauren's mother died tragically, some years ago."

Seeing my nod, Lord Cavendish cleared his throat.

"Well, of course, I want to know if my much-missed wife still exists somewhere after death. It would fill my heart with hope and joy to know if she is happy, and will be there for me when my dying day comes. Oh, I go to church, and know the bible, Mr Mathison. We are meant to live on death, as the Lord had done. But what I want to know if this – can the living and the dead communicate? I find the possibilities fascinating."

"So do I," I declared, forcing a smile. His words had unfortunately reminded me of Miss Lebrun's message, allegedly from my own, deceased, dear Mary.

I pulled out my copy of the writings. "Let us examine the writings in detail, shall we, my Lord? The messages read: _'Pure rage I say. Torment to my foe,'_ then _'He cage tortured her. Lost. No rest. C'_ , and finally _'My foe killed I.H in what storm. Get out!'_ Now the markings are very unusual," I put to my host. "I have heard of spirits leaving scratch marks upon people on rare occasions – but never in such a fashion as messages on walls. However, I would like to hear your theory for those messages."

"Ah, yes… Well, firstly, I should tell you that we Cavendishes only gained possession of this castle in 1850, Mr Mathison. Before then, it was the ancestral home of the Hennesseys. They were regarded by the locals as being a rather haughty and immoral family, all in all." Lord Cavendish shifted in his seat, making the leather creak. "The last Hennessey – the only male of his line left – ran into serious debt, and became engaged with my grandfather in a game of cards that changed our family's fortunes. Instead of winning the money of Samuel Cavendish, Fitzroy Hennessey lost his home and most of the castle's possessions. The shame caused him to commit suicide, some days afterwards. The rest of his family – and the butler – left the country, and never returned."

"Indeed?" said I. "What happened to them?"

"I understand Fitzroy's widow remarried, later in her life. To an Irishman named Devlin. They went to the Emerald Isle." Lord Cavendish stroked his beard in thought. "Anyway, my family were left to learn everything of the castle and its belonging from scratch. However, they did learn about the local folklore and gossip about the Hennesseys from the few servants who remained behind.

"Two centuries ago, a particularly brutish owner of the castle, Bruno Hennessey, discovered that his daughter, Ingrid, was having an affair with one of the grooms. To keep the story to the point, Hennessey imprisoned Ingrid in the dungeon, possibly in a cage - and abused her when she refused to disown her love. Eventually, one night, Ingrid Hennessey was freed by her lover – but both her and the groom were confronted by Sir Bruno before they could flee from the castle. Retreating to the battlements – during a wet and windy night, so the tale says – the couple flung themselves off the west wall into the sea, in their desperation. The groom was rescued by the castle servants – but Ingrid had already drowned. That, I believe, is the answer to the strange messages."

"Interesting… So I.H. could be Ingrid Hennessey. And the referral to 'C' in the second message?" I asked.

"That is, I would say, Callum Thomas – the rescued groom and lover." Lord Cavendish leaned forward in his seat and rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction. "It was his testimony, after Ingrid's death, which led to the story becoming established in local legend. Hennessey never officially answered for his conduct – but he was a shocked and broken man from that night onwards, which is why Callum Thomas apparently lived to tell his tale to the doctor who treated him. Indeed, Bruno's subsequent descent into madness – which is on record – led to his brother becoming the next owner of Tarminster Castle."

"And the manifestation of the messages? Do they not startle you, my Lord?" I asked him.

He seemed to shudder. "They certainly unnerved the workers who were renovating the Castellan's Walk. The messages, added to the stone throwing they sporadically experienced, left them very unhappy to continue working. I was afraid that the spirits would hurt someone directly – so I called a halt to the renovations. The workmen were glad to leave. Though, if possible, I would wish them to return and finish the work – when I am convinced it will be safe for them to do so."

I gave a nod, in response. "When did the stone throwing occur? And the strange writing… When did they appear?" I asked.

"Ahh…" His lordship brow ceased in thought. "The stone throwing started exactly a week ago, and continued for the next two days. Then the spirit messages were found."

"And after the workmen departed at your request, did the stone throwing continue?" I put to Lord Cavendish.

"No, it did not. But then, the area would then be hardly visited by anyone – given that from the direction of the main apartments, the Castellan's Walk leads only to the derelict part of the castle," he informed me.

"Sir Bruno Hennessey was a spirit that I did pick up on in a previous séance," Miss Lebrun interjected. "I am sure his wretched shade is still tied to the castle, unable to come to terms with what he did to his own flesh and blood. I believe that Sir Bruno is active and liable to hurt the living – stirred by the beginnings of the demolition. I concede it is possible that Callum Thomas is present also, bound here by his loathing for Sir Bruno. The warning of 'get out!' might be from him, warning us of Sir Bruno."

I thought about what Miss Lebrun taught me earlier, and I nodded in agreement. "Yes. Building work of any kind has been known to stir spiritual activity," I added. Then I turned to Blanchard. "Sir Tristram," said I. "I notice that you have been silent in this conversation. What is your opinion on all of this?"

The baronet had just lit a cigarette for himself. Now he took the cigarette out of his mouth in order to answer. "Hah! I regard the messages as nonsense, Mr Mathison! I admit I have attended these…séances…out of interest, and because they amuse me – but whilst Miss Lebrun claims to have made contact with said 'spirits', I have yet to see anything that has convinced me it is not hogwash." He snorted. "I say someone living marked out those childish words – with a sharp knife."

"Once again, I ask you who would've done that, Sir Tristram? And why?" Lord Cavendish glowered at him.

"Your daughter, or Miss Boyd – I would suggest! Or maybe one of your staff. I am not the psychic!" Blanchard laughed.

"And yet you are here again, for tonight's séance," I remarked, irked by the man's blunt manner. "I wonder… Do you think your would-be constituents would approve of you being here – especially if you regard the business as folly?"

"I dare say most will not approve. But nor would the same people approve of Lord Cavendish here setting up the séances in the first place." Blanchard blew a ring of smoke that caught my face. "The difference is I go by the judgment of my eyes and ears, alone. And I have yet to be convinced that ghost inhabit this castle!"

"I see. Let me ask you a different question, Sir Tristram," said I. "I have been given to understand that you and Captain Kendrick were together at the time of Miss Boyd's death?"

"Indeed – at the south-west tower. Both of us were looking out over the sea, engaged in conversation, when we heard the screams. We saw nothing of the accident itself."

"What do you think caused Miss Boyd's frightened expression in death, if it was not supernatural?"

Blanchard's nostrils widened visibly as he puffed away. "I have no idea," he declared.

"I would like to ask you a question, Sir Tristram," Miss Lebrun interrupted. "You still regard me as a charlatan – _non_?"

"No, Madame. I just regard you as deluded in your beliefs!"

"Then if I have no contact with spirits – why does my spirit guide tell me you still wonder as to the fate and whereabouts of Sir George?"

Blanchard stiffened. The piggish eyes suddenly became alert. "What!?" he almost snarled.

"I was picking up on the name of Sir George – a friend of yours, I believe. You still do not know where he is, do you?"

Blanchard's expression conveyed the impression to me that the answer was 'no'. His pose was now rigid.

"Rosamund tells me he is not in the world of spirit. So if his whereabouts are unknown to you, he must be out of the country – I should think."

Suddenly disturbed by the medium's words, Blanchard shot out of his seat. "Excuse me, your lordship. Mr Mathison, Madame…" He quickly exited the study and slammed the door to behind him.

I was quick enough to catch a wink from the medium that was meant for my eyes alone – and I understood there and then that the source of her knowledge regarding Sir George Burnwell was not 'Rosamund', but my own journals of Holmes's cases.

Lord Cavendish guffawed. "Thank you, Miss Lebrun. That little demonstration of the world beyond will make that narrow-minded man think again. Now, Mr Mathison – time to introduce you to some of the other people in the castle, yes? And show you the actual site of those peculiar messages?"

I rose from my seat. "I would be delighted, your lordship. Please lead the way."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

 **The Ladies Of Tarminster Castle**

Firstly, we were taken to the school room, where I got to meet Miss Giselle Kaplan for the first time. I had, of course, previously glimpsed her from the window of our hotel room – but now I could see for myself, as she took my offered hand in a light grip, that she was indeed a striking-looking woman, with keen grey eyes and a composed manner.

She was teaching algebra to her sole pupil, Lauren Cavendish – who surprised me by seeing through my disguise. The young lady had time to study my face carefully, before her eyes widened in recognition. I was fearful that she would address me by my real name, and thus give the game away. But she was intelligent enough to stay silent – speaking only when I shook hands with her, as her father introduced me as 'Mr Johan Mathison, who has come to evaluate the séance and vigils tonight."

It was clear to me, in reading the glances between the governess and her employer that there was a close understanding between them – as Miss Lebrun had previously announced. For his part, Lord Cavendish merely told us that in addition to her teaching and governess responsibilities, Miss Kaplan also made an excellent hostess with her evening parlour games.

Next, his lordship took both the medium and myself over to one of the oldest parts of the castle – the Castellan's Walk, where we saw for ourselves the strange messages etched on the new surface of the stone walls. My companion had, of course, seen them on her previous stay at the castle.

The renovation work had been stopped for now, on his lordship's orders – as he was fearful of the spiritual activity that he reasoned had been aroused by the workmen. Lord Cavendish then related to me the reported incidents of pebbles that had been thrown, seemly from this corridor, at the workmen close by whilst they had been attending their duties.

"Did the workmen ever see the pebbles thrown at them?" I asked, making further notes.

"No, Mr Mathison. They always occurred when the men were by themselves, or in twos – and always when their backs were turned. But despite their efforts they could never find anyone hiding from them."

"Hmm… Nevertheless, this section of the castle is host to some nooks and alcoves," I observed.

We walked up to the writings before us. To my relief, there was nothing new there which hadn't already been captured in the photographs I had previously seen. But it struck me again how curious the style of the writing was. The messages made me wonder if the castle was indeed haunted by some bizarre, restless writer from beyond the grave…

And it was interesting that they had been discovered the night before Miss Boyd's death.

I shuddered, feeling a chill in the cool air of the old passageway. I turned to address Miss Lebrun.

"Are you picking up anything now, in terms of the presence of spirits?" I asked her.

"Nothing," she answered, shaking her head. She looked puzzled.

Lord Cavendish then continued his guiding tour of the castle for us, heading past the closed-off areas that including the keep and the adjoining battlements above where Miss Boyd had landed from her fall, in the courtyard.

Eventually, we ended up in the servants' quarters, where I was introduced to the cook, Mrs Lillian Vaughan – and the young maid, Harriet Walden.

Mrs Vaughan was aged in her forties, a plump-looking lady of average height, with frizzled hair and a round, smiling face. She did not have much to say, except – after being prompted by Miss Lebrun – she admitted that she had attended the séance the night Violet Boyd died, as a result of Miss Kaplan's invitation for her to join the gathering. The governess had complained of feeling unwell at about quarter to midnight – not long after the séance had started – and consequently, Mrs Vaughan offered to escort Miss Kaplan to her room. She stayed with her, to ensure the younger woman was all right – and had started to head back to the main hall, when the alarm was raised after the discovery of Miss Violet's death.

Meanwhile, Miss Walden told me of her discovery of the etched 'ghost' messages – as it was she had who had first reported their appearance.

"It was five days ago now, sir," she announced in her meek voice. "It was a close night with a storm brewin' over the mountains a few miles inland. I was unable to sleep. I put on a coat, and went up to the western battlements for some sea air. As I headed along the courtyard, I thought I saw a flicker of light coming from a window in the Castellan's Walk, and I froze, knowing nobody would be there at that time in that deserted part of the castle. But I ventured inside, with my knees a shakin'. The light had gone by then – but with my own candle, I could see those messages – and I was frightened, sir. I knew they weren't there before, when I passed that way with Miss Cavendish before sunset."

"What were you doing with Miss Cavendish then?" I asked.

"Just walkin' around the castle, Mr Mathison. And talkin'. The young lady has time for everyone here."

"I see. And you saw no sign of anyone who could have these messages? No sounds of footsteps, or any other indication that would suggest that a human agency was involved?"

"No, Mr Mathison." It was clear from Harriet Walden's earnest expression that she regarded the wall writings, with some awe.

"So, after you saw the etched writings, what happened next?"

"Well sir, I ran back to the servants' quarters and woke up Lillian here – who has the bedroom next to mine. She came out to see them for herself."

I turned to the cook. "And what did you do then, Mrs Vaughan?"

The older lady rubbed her hands nervously. The memory of that night was fresh in her mind. "We raised the alarm, Mr Mathison. Got his lordship and Mr Boyd to look at the marks for 'emselves! Thought we had an intruder – so we sent for the butler."

"Mrs Vaughan offered to stay besides the messages, and she wrote them down with a pencil and paper – whilst I ran back to the servants' quarters and rapped on Mr Hawkins's bedroom quarters," Miss Walden added.

I noted this down quickly, and then frowned. "You separated? Would it not have been prudent to stay together if you thought there was an intruder in the castle?"

I saw Mrs Vaughan flinch at my last question. As for Miss Walden, her eyes widened.

"Ah well. I wasn't afraid for meself. I just thought it best to write down what was on the walls…in case something else happened – whilst Harriet here alerted the others," the cook answered. "But I saw no one meself, Mr Mathison. You see, I didn't believe that the intruder was a _livin'_ one, you understand."

I smiled. "Then you believe in ghosts, Mrs Vaughan. You were not afraid of anything being thrown at you, whilst you were in the Castellan's Walk?"

She shrugged. "It's the livin' who harms the livin', sir. I don't know that the dead can lay a finger on us – despite what those workmen say."

"I quite understand your point of point, Mrs Vaughan. Now, to change the subject, I understand that you sleep in the castle overnight during most of the week, but go home at the weekends, to join your husband. Why such an arrangement?"

The cook looked surprised at the question. "Well, sir. He lives in Barrow – along the coast from here. And it's better for me to stay put here most of the time, as our…relationship…ain't the best it could be."

"I am sorry to hear that!" said I. "What does Mr Vaughan do for a living?"

"He runs a shop, sir. But that is nothin' to do with anythin'," the cook sniffed.

Aware that my questions were now becoming too probing, I ended my meeting with the two servants there. Lord Cavendish – who, along with Miss Lebrun, had been silent during all this time – was now frowning as we left the servants' quarters.

On a separate note, I was aware that the young Miss Walden was unattached, although - with her pretty features, light-brown hair, and slender build – she would, I believed, have an admirer somewhere in her life. If not already, then soon.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

With the tour of the castle now over, Miss Lebrun and I returned to our separate rooms, which were next to each other. In my bedroom, I allowed myself to unwind and clear my mind – before I re-wrote my notes, and compared them to those provided by Inspector McKenzie. This allowed me to examine everyone's alibis. As I sat doing this, I felt a thrill of excitement, knowing that I was effectively doing what Holmes would do, had he been here himself.

In an hour or so, all the guests gathered would descend for dinner. Later on, at nine o'clock, the séance for tonight would start. And the ghost-watching vigils were due to commence soon after the conclusion of the séance.

I made a mental note to speak to Captain Kendrick later. I had yet to meet him.

Sitting at the desk in my room, I cross-referenced the notes written by both Inspector Mackenzie and myself.

On the night of Violet Boyd's death, there had been a 'first vigil watch', starting at twenty minutes past ten. Those involved had taken up their places – both inside and outdoors, around the interior of the castle. Only Mr Boyd and Captain Kendrick had witnessed anything – but the fleeting dark figures they had independently seen, and reported to the rest of the party, left me in no doubt that the men that night had actually been victims of the pranks of Miss Cavendish and Miss Boyd.

Later on that night, the séance began – at a quarter past eleven, in the dining room. The people gathered were Lord Cavendish, Miss Giselle Kaplan, Mr and Mrs Boyd, Miss Clarissa Lebrun, Captain Alastair Kendrick, Sir Tristram Blanchard, and – at Miss Kaplan's encouragement – Mrs Vaughan, the cook. Also, Roderick Hawker – the butler – had been at hand, standing to one side of the room.

During the séance, after a slow start, Miss Lebrun had sensed the presence of some of the castle's spirits – or so she had told both Inspector Mackenzie and myself. One of those spirits she detected had been the wretched, guilt-stricken – but apparently, still-dangerous – spirit of the cruel Sir Bruno Hennessey.

At twenty minutes to midnight, Miss Kaplan had fainted at the table, due to what she described as a 'heavy presence' in the room. The butler, Hawker, had confirmed that the governess had looked unwell at the time. Mrs Boyd had related how she had heard what sounded like breathing noises in the dimmed room.

Naturally, the fainting of the governess had brought matters to a halt, and the lady excused herself to the others as she left, escorted to her room by Mrs Vaughan. However, Miss Kaplan had wanted the others to continue. I had heard from Clarissa Lebrun that his lordship had objected to the cook leaving with Miss Kaplan – but relented when Mrs Vaughan to return straight back, after ensuring that the governess had safely reached her room.

The cook indeed resumed her place at the circular table some minutes later, reassuring his lordship that Miss Kaplan was recovering in her quarters. Following this, Miss Lebrun and those gathered then recommenced their attention to the séance. Barely had they done so, than the medium was overwhelmed with a terrible sense of foreboding and dead – and her spirit guide, so she said, was warning her of danger.

Then the upturned glass that was being used for divination by the group, shot without warning towards Mr and Mrs Boyd, before tipping over the edge of the table. It thus rolled of Mrs Boyd's lap, fell to the floor, and smashed.

Startled, the group stopped the séance there and then. The lights were turned up again. Several people had left the dinning room, in the aftermath to gather their wits together. Sir Tristram and Captain Kendrick had left the room together. His lordship also exited the dinning room – as did an unnerved Mrs Boyd, accompanied by her husband. Leaving her in a sitting room, Mr Boyd had then – he told the police – gone to his quarters to recompose himself.

That had been at about ten minutes to midnight.

Fifteen minutes later, I knew, Lauren Cavendish – from her own account – heard Violet Boyd screaming. Shortly after that she had found her friend, dead, on the courtyard – and then seen the moving shadow on the battlements.

Meanwhile, according to his alibi as taken down by Inspector Mackenzie, Lord Cavendish had retreated to his quarters, briefly, for a stiff drink about midnight. After a few minutes, he returned to the dining room, and instructed Hawker to find, and recall, Sir Tristram and Captain Kendrick – in order to formally start the next round of the vigils.

Miss Lebrun had informed me that five minutes after the butler left the dining room, he had returned in a state of controlled distress, as he announced his discovery of the fallen Miss Boyd. The medium was not certain, but she approximated the time of the announcement at about 12.20 a.m.

Not long after that, Sir Tristram and Captain Kendrick – followed later by Mr Boyd - had returned to the dining room, to be confronted with the grim news. Mr Boyd was taken by Hawker to examine the body – and was left by it alone to grieve, whilst the butler dashed off to alert Mrs Boyd.

At the same time, Lord Cavendish had hurried to Miss Kaplan's room, to inform her of the tragedy. After alerting her, he then moved onto his daughter's bedroom, to tell her what had happened.

I rubbed my head, lost in thought. It was evident that at the time of Miss Boyd's death, several people were away from the dining room. _If_ everyone had been telling the truth regarding their whereabouts at the time, then only Lord Cavendish, Miss Kaplan, and both Mr and Mrs Boyd were alone at the time of the young lady's death.

And out of those four, both Lord Cavendish and Mr Boyd would certainly have had access to the family vault – with Geoffrey Boyd being custodian in his position as secretary. Someone, after all, had taken the Wexford Ruby from the vault – only for Violet Boyd to have it in her hand when she was found dead by Miss Cavendish.

A knock at the door disturbed me. I quickly hid my papers, and got up. "Who is it?" I asked.

"It's Lauren Cavendish, Dr Watson. Can I come in?" came a whisper.

Sighing with relief, I admitted her and bade the young lady to take a seat.

"You are perceptive, Miss Cavendish. I trust you told no one else who I really am?"

She looked shocked at the suggestion – and then shook her head earnestly. "I wanted to know what is happening, now that you are here. Is Mr Holmes coming too?"

I considered my words carefully. "I can't reveal much to you, Miss Cavendish. Suffice to say, we are doing what we can to find out if your friend was murdered – and if so, who by." I sat opposite her. "I take it you will not be allowed to attend the vigils or the séance, tonight?"

"Papa has refused me, again. However, I will be there at dinner – with everyone else."

I nodded. "Have you told anyone else of your suspicions – or what you were doing with Violet that night?"

"No, Dr Watson. And Miss Kaplan has now stopped questioning me about my visit to Mr Holmes."

"Please develop the habit of calling me Mr Mathison – in case someone sees us in conversation later on," I cautioned her. "Now, since you are here, perhaps you can help make clear a matter regarding your father."

"I will try, sir. What is it?"

"From what I have learnt of the last séance, your father seemed loathed to let Mrs Vaughan accompany Miss Kaplan to her quarters after your governess fainted. Why would that be?"

The girl before me looked uncomfortable. "I…I know the reason. But I found out by accident… Mrs Vaughan was caught, five days ago, Mr Mathison!"

"Caught? Doing what?"

"Stealing food from the pantry! Papa was enraged, and wanted to fire her."

"But he has not. Why?"

"My governess found out what happened – and pleaded with Papa to give the cook another chance. He relented."

"I see… And what relationship do Miss Kaplan and Mrs Vaughan have?"

"They seem to be friendly to each other, and mix on occasion. However, since the theft, my father – although still employing Mrs Vaughan - has warned her to have as little contact with Miss Kaplan as possible. He does not want his 'precious Giselle' to associate with the cook anymore, I heard…"

"…from Harriet Walden?" I ventured.

Miss Cavendish hesitated – and then nodded.

I quickly wrote down this new series of facts, and then glanced at the young lady with me. "And this theft was five days ago – the same day before the night that those 'spirit messages' appeared?"

"Umm… Yes, it was!"

"Are you aware of food being stolen from the pantry before?"

"Never!"

I paused for reflection. I was inclined to dismiss this line of enquiry as irrelevant – but I knew Holmes would not. "What food was it?" I pressed further.

"Two tins of biscuits, I believe. And…, and some bread!"

I rubbed my head, not sure what to make of this information. "Did Mrs Vaughan give a reason for her conduct?"

"Only that she was short of money – and wanted to provide for her husband."

"What about those messages in the Castellan's Walk? Were you or Violet responsible for them?" I asked, on a sudden inspiration.

The girl stared at me with open blue eyes that betrayed no flicker of dishonesty. "No, sir! I was not. And Violet would have told me, if she had made them. We did not hold secrets from each other. I have no idea how those messages came to be there. They…they disturb me, Mr Mathison. Especially in light of Violet's subsequent death…" she trailed off.

I nodded, not sure I felt to be cheated of a possible answer as to the creator of the mysterious messages. "Well… Thank you, Miss Cavendish. Is there anything else you can think of that would have our investigation?"

"I cannot think of anything, Dr… I mean, Mr Mathison. I am just glad that you and Mr Holmes take me seriously…!" The young lady trailed off. "Oh…! Perhaps there _is_ something…"

"And what is that?"

"When I ran back to my bedroom, after finding poor Violet that night, I raced past the entrance to the Castellan's Walk. In the light from the courtyard lamp, I could see the door being opened by a man's hand, and I slowed down after my initial sprint, to gather my breath again. I thought I heard a snatch of conversation. But I was so frightened, I soon ran off again."

"This is interesting, Miss Cavendish! Do you have any ideas as to whom those voices belonged?"

"I…I am not sure. One seemed to be Miss Walden. It was certainly a woman's – and she said: 'What is that?'. Then she followed it with a name. It sounded like 'Tristan'. I believed that she had seen me, in my sheet as a ghost – and in my distress I ran away."

"Have you spoken to Miss Walden about this?" I asked.

"No. I had forgotten this detail – being as I was so overcome by Violet's… Well, you know. Besides, although I like Miss Walden, she wouldn't approve of my being out of my room, after bedtime - acting like a ghost!"

"I see. And as to this voice you heard. How did it sound – I mean, emotionally?"

"It was distressed, Doctor…- Mr Mathison, I mean. Frightened."

"Do you have any theory as to whom this woman was speaking to?" I put to my guest.

"Sir Tristram, naturally."

"You think he and Miss Walden were meeting together, in secret? That maybe there is an attraction between them?" In my own mind, I couldn't believe that there was. Nevertheless, the man had money and influence.

"I am sure I am not wise enough to comment on Miss Walden's feelings towards men, Mr Mathison," Lauren eventually replied. "You should ask her directly."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

 **The Séance**

Our conversation having reached its end, Miss Lauren soon departed from my room. I was then free to spend a little more time arranging my notes. Then I decided to prepare myself for the evening.

Having put on my best attire for dinner, I escorted Miss Lebrun – supporting her, as she carefully descended the stairs.

At the rectangular dining table I was sat with Miss Lebrun on my left, Miss Giselle Kaplan on my right, and directly opposite Captain Kendrick. To the Captain's right was Sir Tristram – and to his left, Mr and Mrs Boyd. Miss Lauren was on the other side of the governess to myself – and Lord Cavendish was at the head of the table, to the right of his daughter. Only the far end seat was empty – and I noticed both Miss Lauren and the Boyds look towards it with a solemn look.

Miss Kaplan saw my observations. "Lord Cavendish has instructed an empty seat to be left at the table for each meal since the tragic accident, Mr Mathison," she explained to me, with a downcast expression. "Until the funeral takes place, at least."

"The police have released Violet to the undertakers. The service will be in a few days," Mrs Boyd added. She sniffed and removed a handkerchief from the sleeve of her black dress, as she fought back from the watering of her eyes. Her husband put down his knife and fork, in order to squeeze her hand. She managed a grateful smile.

Feeling uncomfortable, and with my memories of examining their dead daughter's body still strong in my mind, I turned to engage Captain Kendrick. I started by enquiring about his army service so far, and he was happy enough to entertain us with tales of his experiences with the natives in both Egypt and India. He was a slim, tall man – clean shaven, and aged in his early thirties. The most distinguishing features the Captain bore were his earnest-looking face, a pair of clear blue eyes, and a two-inch scar running along his forehead below his neatly-cut brown hair – a scar acquired during an ambush by a thugee raider, in India. The thugee, Kendrick assured me, came off worse. He was carried off by the rest of his fleeing gang, after they failed to overcome the Captain's army patrol that they had ambushed one night.

"What is your present opinion on the supernatural, Captain?" I asked of him, once we had moved onto the desert course.

"Not sure what to make of the last séance. Thought I felt something breathing near my neck on that occasion. Still, could have been my imagination, of course – what with expectations," he confessed, shrugging his shoulders. "It was a bad night, as you know." The Captain's eyes flitted to the Boyds, who were now engaged in conversation with Miss Kaplan.

"Yes, indeed," I replied.

"The worst thing was hearing that god-awful scream of Miss Boyd's….," the Captain muttered.

"Have you served in the army, Mr Mathison?" Sir Tristram interrupted, as he patted his mouth with his napkin.

"I did. In Afghanistan." I decided to answer truthfully – not wishing to fabricate, and possibly embellish, a lie.

"Really? Then you are as English as your accent. But your first name – Johan…"

There was a spark of animosity in the baronet's eyes. I swallowed down my sudden nervousness, and made up an explanation on the spot. "Well – my mother is descended from a Germanic family… 'Johan' was my maternal grandfather's name. But I was raised in this country – as my father before me…"

Sir Tristram seemed to relax. "Ahh! Very good. Not a Boche, then…"

"I'm sorry?" I frowned.

"I mean not a German. I once came across people in Paris who use the term 'Boche'." The thick-set man waved his fat hand, dismissing the matter. "Anyway… So Afghanistan… Perhaps you know then of Captain Kendrick's father? He also served in that country – as General."

"Tristram… There's no need to discuss…" The Captain fell silent upon seeing the expression on both Miss Lebrun's face and my own.

"General Kendrick…" I mused. "Yes, I recall. He was also called Alistair, now I think about it. Alistair Reuben Kendrick."

"You feel as though you've had to live in your father's shadow – do you not, Captain?" Miss Lebrun whispered to him.

Kendrick straightened himself and took a slow sip of his wine. "Unfortunately, yes – Madame. Not only was I named after my father – I was modeled after him. I was not allowed to be the scholar I wanted to be. At least my mother persuaded my father to grant me my own middle name – instead of being 'Junior'."

"What name is that, then?" I asked.

"Christian." The Captain smiled.

"Ha! You've got to be a leader of men, and you have seen something of the wider world. Is that so bad?" Blanchard rumbled.

"Depends on how you look at it, sir," the Captain's eyes turned cold. "The world can be a beautiful place – but there is so much poverty, so much that is wrong with what we call 'civilisation.' We…"

"Now, then – my lad. Let us keep politics away from the dining table, shall we? I do!" Sir Tristram laughed, but I saw that his eyes were serious.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

After dinner, Miss Kaplan was urged by Mrs Boyd to host some parlour games in the Withdrawing Room. I stayed for some minutes in the company of Lord Cavendish, his daughter, the Boyds, and the rest of the guests – joining in with descriptive and guessing word games. Deciding that I hadn't the necessary skill or turn of mind in the circumstances, I headed outside and smoked my cigar on the east curtain wall – grateful to be alone with my thoughts. I checked my watch. The carriage containing Inspector Mackenzie – as well as Holmes and Stanley Hopkins – would be arriving soon. I looked up at the November night sky. It was cloudy. Although typically cold for autumn, at least there would not be a frost for the vigils. I was glad for that.

"Looks as if it'll stay dry. Best to have coats on tonight, though," announced Mr Boyd.

I nearly jumped. "I did not hear you approach," I confessed.

"Soft shoes." The secretary smiled momentarily. "Sorry for disturbing you. I had to get out of the room. My wife insisted on Miss Kaplan hosting another anagram session. Belinda is good at those things – but not me."

"Your wife seems to be enjoying herself, at least," I noted, as I continued my smoke.

"Those games divert her mind away from the memory of what happened to Violet," Mr Boyd explained to me. "I'd rather that we got on with this blasted séance. See if Miss Lebrun _can_ sense our daughter's presence – or explain…how she met her end."

I nodded, and then thought of how I could ask him how anyone could have taken a ruby from the family vault. Officially, the Wexford Ruby Lauren had left Holmes with was not missing. Apart from Miss Lauren – who had found the ruby on her dead friend's person, no one amongst the people within Tarminster Castle had talked of any theft.

"Mr Boyd…," I began.

At that moment, the carriage that I was expecting passed through the gap underneath the gatehouse, before pulling up in the courtyard. We watched as Inspector Mackenzie got out alone.

"Now what the Dickens is this?" Boyd exclaimed. "Excuse me, Mr Mathison."

As the secretary hurried down to the courtyard to be met by the Whitehaven inspector, I saw Holmes and Hopkins leave the carriage via the other door, and creep over to the shadows of the courtyard, where they hid themselves. Holmes and I quickly nodded to each other – then he disappeared. I would get my chance to speak to them both, later on.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

When I returned to rejoin the others, Inspector Mackenzie was just leaving. Lord Cavendish announced to everyone that the policeman had informed him of a dangerous escaped convict in the area – and that Sherlock Holmes and his aide, who had been staying in the county, were presently helping the police.

Everyone in the party seemed to be unnerved by the news – apart from Miss Lebrun, who already knew of the plan Holmes had devised in advance. The other women seemed to be disturbed in particular – both Miss Kaplan and Mrs Boyd were frowning. I also fancied I saw a quizzical expression pass across the face of Sir Tristram, as he narrowed his piggish eyes.

Thankfully nobody, it seemed, had rumbled my disguise. Apart from Lauren Cavendish, of course.

After the young lady bade us all goodnight, Miss Kaplan came over to engage me in conversation.

"I hope that this session will be worthy enough for you, Mr Mathison." The governess smiled. "It would be good to obtain proof tonight that even Sir Tristram cannot explain away."

"And I hope that you will not find it as distressing as the last one," I remarked.

Miss Kaplan shivered at the memory. "Yes, indeed… I _will_ not faint this time! I am determined to prove my resolve. And, after tonight, I hope Mr and Mrs Boyd's grief for their daughter's passing will ease."

The time had now come. Lord Cavendish and the butler, Hawker, saw to the dimming of the lighting in the dining room. Then, along with Mrs Vaughan, the cook – who had been allowed to join us for the séance – the party of nine now gathered sat down at the table. Five men and four women.

The same company as at the previous séance – this time with the addition of myself.

I took up a position three seats away from Miss Lebrun, where I could see the medium clearly. I will not go into great detail regarding the beginning of the séance, as even now, I am uncomfortable with the fact that I attended such an event. Suffice to say that everyone fell silent, as we collectively laid our hands on the table. My companion for the evening concentrated, and called out to any spirits present in the castle to make themselves known. Nothing happened. Miss Lebrun again pleaded for contact from the other side.

"Lady Cavendish? Are you present to pass on a message to your husband here? _Non? D'accord…_ Is Violet Boyd there? Please, if you are able to hear me, dear – come forward, to make yourself known to us. Your parents are here! Make something in the room, move, or make a noise, _cher_ _enfant_."

Still, there was nothing to be heard in the darkened room – save the breathing of those gathered, and the occasional cough. I could feel my senses sharpen as they adjusted to the gloom and the deathly silence. The single candle flickering in the very centre of the dining table was creating a suitably eerie effect with the dancing shadows upon the walls, paintings, and furniture around us – shadows cast by those present. I looked around at the illuminated faces – and witnessed various expressions. Poised excitement from Lord Cavendish, alert tension from Miss Kaplan and Mrs Boyd, amused indifference from Sir Tristram, apprehension from Mr Boyd and Mrs Vaughan, and a guarded look of concern from the eyes and firmly-set lips of Captain Kendrick.

For the next few minutes, there was silence from everyone present, apart from the occasional pleas by Lord Cavendish for the spirits of the castle to 'come forward'. Clarissa Lebrun had her eyes shut tight. Suddenly, one of her hands seized Lord Cavendish's, making him cry out.

"Miss Lebrun?" Giselle Kaplan whispered aloud.

"She lies uneasy…," muttered the medium. "Frightened. Try to run away from _him_ … Bad man!"

"Who?" Lord Cavendish hissed. "Sir Bruno?"

"Cannot see his face… She saw his face – and she wanted to escape. She can't show me his face – the memory of it frightens her… She screamed because of it… Somebody else with him. Two people. She fell from…"

Miss Kaplan gasped aloud. "Lady Ingrid!"

" _Non!_ Another girl. It's… It's…"

Suddenly, there was the clear sound of a footstep from somewhere close by. Before I could fully take this in, the cook next to me screamed. I instinctively flinched.

"What!? Mrs Vaughan – what is it?" Captain Kendrick quickly responded.

"Something just blew into my ear!" the cook whimpered.

" _Une mort!_ " Miss Lebrun murmured, evidently still in her light trance. In the flickering candlelight saw her begin to shake. "Danger! Rosamund is warning me… The girl met her end by violence!"

"Miss Lebrun!" Geoffrey Boyd snapped his fingers in front of the medium's eyes.

"There is danger in the castle! Death!" she gasped, breathing heavily. I could sense a shift in the atmosphere of the dining room. Tension amongst the sitters, of course. But was it my imagination under the circumstances, or was there something else…?

Mr Boyd suddenly shot up out of his chair, breaking the circle of linking hands that were pressed against the edge of the tablecloth. "My Lord!" he exclaimed. "We must help her!"

His lordship hesitated, but then nodded. He laid a firm hand on Miss Lebrun's shoulder, but did not shake her. Instead, he brought his face close to her ear. "Clarissa! Enough! Come back to us, Clarissa!"

Then, without warning, the candle that had been placed within the circle of those gathered fell over, with a _'bang'_. A second or two later, the flame flickered violently and went out.

Mrs Boyd gave a yell.

There was a sudden commotion. Seconds later, Hawker – who had been standing close – had lit another candle. Half of the assembly had jumped out of their seats, and now looked astonished. Even Sir Tristram was looking at a loss for words. Indeed, there was no hint of a sneer or smarminess evident on his features.

More candles were lit, on Lord Cavendish's request. I helped Mr Boyd to revive Miss Lebrun from her trance. She had fallen silent – and was now rubbing her forehead, as thought awakening from a deep sleep. Meanwhile, I noted, several of the others were comforting Lillian Vaughan from her shock.

For a little while, we just stayed in the room, gathering our thoughts – and our wits – together. Then Miss Kaplan walked over to Lord Cavendish. She looked disturbed.

"I need to excuse myself, Algernon. I will be back in about ten minutes."

"Of course, my dear." He nodded.

As Miss Kaplan headed out of the dining room, I returned my attention to Clarissa Lebrun. She was now semi-lucid, and I indicated to Mr Boyd that he could now leave us.

"I'll fetch some water," he offered.

"Yes, please do," I bade him. As he moved away, I examined the lady's forehead. "Are you all right?" I asked gently.

"I will be, doc-. Sorry, Mr Mathison. I am still shaken from those images that I saw, with my mind's eye. They were fragments. She was trying to warn us!"

"Who? Your…spirit guide?"

" _Non!_ Violet Boyd! She was the sender of those images, aided by the spirit world." Miss Lebrun gripped my wrist, as she whispered into my ear. "Nobody must go outside by themselves! I saw death closing in on us…"

"There was a footstep. It might have come from underneath the table – maybe somebody here did that," I mused.

"I did not hear it… But I know that the candle was tipped over. Violet was trying to send a signal… _That_ was her doing!"

We both looked at the candle – still in its candlestick holder. I picked up the candlestick from its fallen position. It was sufficiently sturdy to rule out any chance of it falling over accidentally – yet it had fallen and rolled a little. I started to turn it upright, when the medium stayed my hand.

"Wait! The direction it was facing – who was sat in those seats?"

"Er… Sir Tristram. And Miss Kaplan. And I think the candle ended up pointing to Lord Cavendish." I looked around the room, and stiffened. Turning to Mrs Boyd, who was talking to Hawker, I asked, "Where are Sir Tristram and the Captain?"

"They have both gone for a smoke – before the vigils begin, I believe," Belinda Boyd answered. Her voice and expression hinted at nervous excitement. "Mr Mathison… Do you believe what we…, what we have just witnessed was…supernatural?"

"What? Oh… I prefer to reserve judgment for now, Mrs Boyd! Now, please excuse me."

I quickly glanced at the clock, noting the time to be twenty minutes past nine o'clock – then I exited the dining room, and strode along the corridor outside, my footsteps pounding along the wooden floorboards where the old carpets did not reach. At the main hall, I walked out into the courtyard, hoping to see any one of the party who had left before me – curious to discover if there had been a deeper reason for any of them suddenly departing.

I soon spied one of them.

Sir Tristram was walking at some speed along the edge of the courtyard – heading clockwise towards the west curtain wall. Every now and then, he would stop from his slightly comic sprints of movement, and look behind him.

I kept myself behind cover, and followed discreetly from a distance. The baronet's behaviour was suspicious enough to tell me that he had not 'gone for a smoke', despite what he might had told Mrs Boyd.

He was heading for the old wing of the castle, where the 'ghostly' messages had materialised, I reflected to myself. To the Castellan's Walk. And I saw now that he was carrying a lit candle in a dish – taken from the hallway.

At the wing, Sir Tristram opened the unlocked door that granted him access to the ground floor corridor beyond – and closed it to behind him.

I walked around the edge of the courtyard, checking to see if anyone else was watching me. I considered that Holmes was probably observant of the scene right now. Nevertheless, I saw – and heard – no one else.

Due to my caution, it probably took me a minute to reach the door. As I got there, I paused, shivering from the damp air. Then, as my hand turned the door handle, I jumped back with fright, as my ears were abruptly assaulted by a piercing, agonized cry!

Shocked, I flung open the door and entered the corridor. Turning to my right, I hurried along, to see movement at the corner of the passageway – where it bent at a ninety degree angle to the right. Coming to a halt before a figure crouched at the corner, I drew out my revolver. Whoever it was, it certainly was not Sir Tristram.

"All right," said I, fighting to keep my voice calm and authoritive. "Hands up! Turn around, so I can see your face."

The figure, dressed in a black coat, trousers and soft shoes, straightened up slowly. Then he carefully swung himself to face me.

"Good, Watson! You got here swiftly." The familiar voice reached my ears. "Unfortunately, we weren't quick enough!"

"Holmes!" I placed the revolver back into the inside pocket of my jacket – then looked down at what Holmes had been examining on the floor, just past the corner of the passage. Immediately, I stiffened.

It was the still form of Sir Tristram. He was sprawled at the base of the wall, his back pressed against the stonework – and his legs sticking outwards on the floor. Evidently, he had collapsed backwards against the wall, before sliding down it. The man's eyes were open and protruding. Upon his face was a frozen expression of anguish – the mouth froze wide in a now-silent scream. Blood slowly oozed down his hand that was pressed against his chest, staining his smoking jacket and expensive clothes. The liquid was forming a slowly-growing, glistening red pool upon the stone floor underneath him.

With trembling hands, I quickly examined Sir Tristram – and soon confirmed what I had feared.

The baronet was dead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**

 **Thanks to those of you who have left me encouraging reviews!**

 **There's no obligation - but for anyone who wishes to solve the case themselves, as they read the story, it might help to write notes about the timeline of events over different days (and the times and locations where each character was on the nights of the two mysterious deaths that you now know of). The secrets will begin to unravel in Chapter Seven.**

 **Otherwise, pray continue!**

 **Chapter Six:**

 **A Tangled Skein**

I turned away for a long moment in order to recover my breath. The sight of the recently-deceased man, despite the warning of the scream I had heard, was still a shock to my system.

As I gradually regained my composure, I berated myself for not being quicker upon the scene. I could have prevented this – or at least have confronted, and maybe identified, the man's killer.

My eyes slowly turned to the grisly spectacle once more. There was a blood stain marking Sir Tristram's waistcoat – a stain that was growing, even as I looked, in the light of the baronet's candle, placed on the stone floor at a point where it met the opposite wall to that where Sir Tristram had expired.

Just then, there was the pounding of footsteps, and I whirred round – only to sigh with relief. Moments later, Inspector Stanley Hopkins had joined us, having hurried from the opposite end of the corridor – the Castellan's Walk – compared to the approach that I had used to get here.

"I came as quickly as I could… I heard a cry…," he panted. Then Hopkins went rigid as he saw who I was now examining. He could also see the blood that my hands were now stained with.

"My word…! Is he…?"

"Yes – dead. Killed by what looks like a knife wound to the heart," I summarised. "He must have died within a matter of seconds – and barely two minutes ago! The killer cannot be far away!"

"And therein lies a small problem, gentlemen," remarked Holmes. "This stretch of the passageway has only the one heavy door that you see in the corner, here. It is padlocked – and the lock is rusty. The room beyond must be one of those areas marked for demolition. And I ran, upon hearing this man's cry, from the southern end of the Castellan's Walk. We have inadvertently all joined together at the crime scene from all three possible exits. Yet, none of us has evidently seen the killer. What does that suggest to you, Inspector?"

Hopkins carefully looked all around at the surrounding walls, the floor, and the ceiling. He gave a pull on the rusty padlock of the nearby door, to test it – then walked a short distance along the passage in both directions, taking in everything around him.

He returned to us with an astonished expression on his face. "There must be a secret door hidden close by!"

Holmes lightly clapped his hands together, and smiled. "Bravo, Inspector! Now, if you wish to examine the walls together for anything that could help us, I will – with your permission, Doctor – remove the possessions of this poor soul."

I nodded.

Slipping on a pair of thin gloves, Holmes got to work. In the meantime, I kept a watch for anyone else approaching.

When Hopkins got back, Holmes straightened up.

"What do you have there, sir?" the Inspector asked.

My friend unfolded the blood-stained envelope and opened up the note inside. "This was lying, crumpled, underneath the body. Judging by the appearance of Sir Tristram's pockets, my belief is that the killer tried to remove this from the victim. In short, given the swiftness of the attack and flight of the killer, the murderer _knew_ that this would be on Sir Tristram's person…"

"Wait! Sir Tristram Blanchard, you, mean?"

"Indeed, it is," I confirmed to Hopkins. "What does the note say, Holmes?"

"It reads: 'MEET ME AT THE WALL MESSAGES, AT NINE-TWENTY. WE WILL DISCUSS TERMS FOR THE JEWEL THEN. TELL NO ONE. BRING THIS NOTE WITH YOU.' Humph! Written in capitals, with good quality ink. No signature. Slip of paper has been cut with short-bladed scissors – and in such a way, so as to leave no watermark. Message was inside the envelope containing Sir Tristram's invite card… Hah! These are deep waters! And judging by the scratch marks to this man's face and the flakes of skin underneath his nails, there must have been a struggle – brief as it was."

"Who would have sent the card?" Hopkins put to me.

"I would assume Geoffrey Boyd, the secretary… I should get back!" I declared. "Surely the person who did this would have blood stains upon their person…?"

I trailed off, as footsteps echoed along the Castellan's Walk from the southern end. I heard Holmes and Hopkins whisper in agitation – then they hid themselves behind the corner of the corridor as the butler, Hawker, walked briskly over to me.

"Mr Mathison? You are required by his lordship… My word! Sir Tristram!?" The spindly man's composed manner was shaken as he saw the twisted body at my feet. His mouth dropped open in astonishment as he slowly drew nearer.

"Alert Lord Cavendish, Hawker. And ensure that no one leaves the castle!"

"Good heavens! The police…"

"…are already here," Hopkins stepped out from around the corner, along with Holmes. The butler would have seen them within a matter of seconds anyway, I reasoned.

Hawker stared in disbelief at my companions. His lips twitched, as though he was fighting for the appropriate expression to convey his feelings. "I was not aware that we had uninvited guests," he huffed.

"Now you are. And you also have a murderer somewhere in the castle," Holmes remarked drily. "I suggest that you take the Inspector and myself to the gathered party, wherever they are…"

"Most of them are currently now in the withdrawing room," Hawker interjected.

"Splendid. That will do nicely for my meeting with them." He turned to me. "Best if you guard the body, old fellow. Don't let your guard down, though. Meanwhile, I will place this card and message into that pouch of yours, Inspector – like so! Now, let's announce ourselves formally to the séance members!"

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

It was some time – I estimated about three-quarters of an hour – before Holmes returned to me, along with a police sergeant who Inspector Mackenzie had posted outside the castle gates, before he had returned to Whitehaven. With the sergeant taking over from me guarding the now-shrouded body, Holmes bade me to follow him, as he looked over the 'ghostly writing' once more (he had studied it first-hand earlier, he told me). Then, seeing no changes or additions to it, he and I walked south along the Castellan's Walk towards the main chambers of the castle. Halfway along the passageway, we stopped to talk in private. Holmes asked me to relate everything that had happened since my arrival – all that I had seen or heard. With the aid of my note book, I complied.

Holmes leaned against a stone carving of a knight set in one of the walls as he listened intently. When I finished, he heartily slapped me on the shoulder.

" 'Pon my word, Watson! You have done marvellously! So, Miss Kaplan, Mr Boyd, and Captain Kendrick had all left the gathering in the dining room, before you followed Sir Tristram to where he met his end?"

"Yes, and I wonder if he was following any of them – going by that note you found."

"I think it likely that he was. Or perhaps he _thought_ he was following someone to his rendezvous. I myself saw nobody before Blanchard screamed. And given the fact that the man had no weapon upon him – and also considering his expression in death – I would further state that he did not expect to be ambushed. In any case, Hopkins and I - after startling Lord Cavendish and his party with our presence – have gathered some useful details.

"Blanchard was apparently the last one to leave the dining room before you, Watson. And you were the final guest to vanish. Meanwhile, his lordship is most unhappy at having a Scotland Yard Inspector and an 'amateur detective' pop up inside his home 'like some jack-in-the-box', as Hopkins correctly predicted earlier to us. However, the good Hopkins has convinced him of the seriousness of the situation. As for the others, our suspects generally seem to be shocked that another séance has led to another death in the castle."

"And my identity…?"

"Is still intact. Lord Cavendish and the others have been told you were guarding the body, and you are helping us in our enquiries – given that you heard the man's death cry. In fact…" Holmes slapped the palms of his hands together. "…I should correct myself, Holmes! Hopkins and I interviewed the suspects two at a time in the withdrawing room – whilst keeping the others in the billiard room and library. After our interrogations, I examined the library – which is next to the withdrawing room, as you know. I found this, in between the pages of a book that someone had taken out, but had not quite put back into place."

My friend fished out a torn slip of paper from his coat pocket. He smiled as he handed the note to me. It read: 'JOHAN W MATHISON' at the top. Underlying each letter were several dots and line, and there followed a jumble of tiny letters – all of them pertaining to the name of my alias.

In one corner of the paper was another set of capital letters. The text clearly read: 'I AM JOHN H WATSON'.

" _My word,_ Holmes! So that's why you gave me such a specific alias! It's a rearrangement of my own name. And somebody has realised that now!"

"Quite so. This is just the opportunity I was hoping for, Watson! I have been extremely busy after you had left Whitehaven with Miss Lebrun. I now know that whoever we are up against, they are extremely secretive and clever – and, as the fate of Sir Tristram has proved, they are prepared to use violence to achieve their aims, whatever those turn out to be."

"They?"

"When Hopkins and I got to the withdrawing room, everyone from the séance gathering – bar yourself and Blanchard, of course – were present. None of them bore any signs of blood stains on their clothing."

I was at a loss. My mind reeled as it took in the implications of the stated fact. "Then Sir Tristram was killed by someone else entirely?" I reasoned.

"So I read it, Watson. But this killer has an accomplice – the message prompting Blanchard to attend the rendezvous had the opportunity to slip it into the invitation card, breaking the seal on the envelope I found, before resealing it. The seal bore distinct marks of more than one set of fingerprints – which is why I draw that conclusion. And the murderer was trying to remove the incriminating message – only to panic at the sound of my hurried footsteps. Had I been a little quicker, I might have seen the means by which our fox disappeared."

"And we are talking here, a short distance along the corridor from where Sir Tristram lies, because…"

"The murderer might be in his hiding place once more, to eavesdrop on us, otherwise."

I leaned against the wall behind me. My head began to fill with numerous thoughts and questions. "Surely Mr Boyd wrote the message to Sir Tristram," said I. "As the secretary to Lord Cavendish, he would have written those invitation cards. And he has access to the family vault. He could have taken that ruby that Violet was holding when she died."

"Good, Watson! But not top marks. I have interviewed Mr Boyd and his lordship separately. They both say they are the only people who possess the keys to the vault. And yes – Mr Boyd wrote the cards – but the letters would have gone to the servants for dispatch. It is possible that someone else saw Blanchard's card, opened it, and inserted the message, before it got to him."

"Well… What about Lord Cavendish? If anyone knows of any secret rooms and corridors in this castle, where a man could hide from us, surely he knows of it? Miss Lauren has not told me of anything like that."

"I have also raised this subject with the man. He professes to know of none. By your own account to me, Watson, you heard Lord Cavendish tell you earlier that his family _inherited_ the castle. Over a game of cards, no less. They did not build it."

"Then we are at a standstill? For all the facts that we have gathered, the answer as to who caused the deaths of _two_ people now, still eludes us?"

"Not quite, my old friend." Holmes's gaze turned thoughtful. "I have solved a portion of the mystery – but I must confess that Blanchard's death has shaken me! It makes the whole affair both clearer - and yet darker - at the same time. We now know for certain there is _someone else_ in the castle." Holmes sat down on the window ledge nearby – and interlacing his hands together, pressed his thumbs against his chin. For a long moment, he was lost in thought. Then he suddenly spoke again – startling me.

"Watson! Read to me again what you wrote down, regarding the accounts of Sir Tristram and Captain Kendrick on the night Miss Boyd died."

I did so – mentally comparing their accounts in the process. "Of course…" I clicked my thumb and forefinger together in realisation.

"Time to have another talk with the Captain, I think, Watson," Holmes declared, with a twinkle in his eye.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

With Inspector Hopkins still somewhere in the castle's main apartments, Holmes and I had arrived at Captain Kendrick's guest bedroom. The army officer sat on the edge of his bed, whilst Holmes sat; leaning forward on the chair he had taken. I leaned against the door. My disguise and alias had now been dropped – at my insistence – as I felt it uncomfortable to go on any longer with the deception. Therefore, everyone in the castle doubtless knew that Holmes, aided by myself, were investigating Sir Tristram's murder. But the night was getting late. We were running out of time to question our suspects.

"Previously, you had told Inspector Mackenzie that on the night of Miss Boyd's death, you and Sir Tristram were together on the south west tower, looking out to sea, when the girl died. Is that correct?" Holmes put to the Captain.

Kendrick looked ill at ease. "I did."

"And that you heard her cry out – just before the alarm was raised by Hawker?"

"Yes."

"The one cry?"

"I… Yes! I…, I'm not sure."

"Why then did Sir Tristram tell Dr Watson here, that he heard Miss Boyd scream _more_ than once?"

"Did… Did he?"

"Yes, he did, Captain Kendrick," I spoke up. "And I remember now that Sir Tristram interrupted our conversation at dinner, when you spoke of hearing 'that god-awful scream of Miss Boyd's'. He was evidently perceptive enough to realise you were making a slip. A small one – but it threatened to blow your joint alibi apart." Buoyed by my realisation, I took a confident step forward. "The truth is you two were _not_ together when Miss Boyd died – were you?"

"Excellent, Watson." I saw Holmes smile languidly.

"Oh, god!" Kendrick sank his face into his hands. "All right! I confess – the two of us had arranged an alibi between us, by the time we set outside for our joint ghost vigil that night. We actually split up, after leaving the others."

"You were with Walden, in the Castellan's Walk where the ghost writings are situated," Holmes remarked.

"How did you know that…?" Kendrick slapped his hand against his temple. "Oh! That figure that ran past, when I opened the door! Harriet and I saw someone…"

"I thought our witness heard Miss Walden say 'Tristan!'," I interrupted.

"No, Watson," Holmes replied. "Miss Walden apparently said: 'What was that, _Christian?'_ As in 'Alasdair Christian Kendrick'. This man's preferred name of informal use, I would wager. This is why you only heard Miss Boyd scream once, Captain Kendrick – you were unable to hear the first scream, as you were indoors, spending some quality time with the maid. Am I right?"

Captain Kendrick gave a groan and looked us both in the eyes. "Mr Holmes, please… She is the reason why I come back to these séance sessions. Harriet doesn't want anyone else to know about us! Lord Cavendish would not be happy.

"Well, if neither you or Miss Walden have anything to do with the deaths of either Violet Boyd or that of Sir Tristram Blanchard, then the matter will go no further than this room." Holmes looked across to me, and I nodded my agreement.

"I swear to you gentlemen that is the only secret that I have been hiding. Both Harriet and I have nothing to do with those terrible events. Neither did Harriett make those bizarre writings that she discovered. I have asked her – and she has no idea who or what made them. We trust each other. But you would have questioned her…"

"Not I. Inspector Hopkins interviewed Harriett Walden tonight. But evidently she did not reveal your shared secret, for the good Inspector has not told me of it," Holmes reassured Kendrick. "In any case, it seems clear that you and Miss Walden weren't responsible for Miss Boyd's fall. However, Sir Tristram now has no alibi for when the girl died. So I ask of you, Captain Kendrick, to help us in any way that you can."

"Very well, Mr Holmes. I left Sir Tristram in the courtyard. As we parted, I saw him disappear up the stone staircase at the edge of the gatehouse. He was going to spend his ghost vigil smoking, in the vicinity of the gatehouse towers and the edge of the north rampart – up to the point where the workmen erected a barrier…"

"…where the stonework is crumbling." Holmes nodded. "Was there anything else anything else that evening that can assist us? Think – Captain Kendrick! Miss Boyd's death may not have been an accident!"

The man's face turned pale. He slowly drummed his fingers on one leg as he thought to himself. Then he addressed us.

"I…I was about to enter the Castellan's Walk from the courtyard. To meet Harriet, as you rightly say. As I opened the door, I thought I glimpsed a flash of light out of the corner of my eye – from high on the keep. But when I turned to look, there was nothing to see. So I dismissed the whole thing. Thought it was my imagination working overtime, after hearing the old tales of the castle's ghosts. I had forgotten about this flash of light, to be honest – my thoughts were more on Harriet at that time…"

"Thank you. One last matter. When did you see Sir Tristram again that night? And was there anything about him that was different, or of importance, when you met?" Holmes asked.

"It was after Miss Violet had been found dead," the Captain answered, after some thought. "Harriet and I saw that fleeting figure rush by the doorway leading to the courtyard, after we composed ourselves from our time together and opened the door. We had been heard Miss Boyd scream, you see. Just the one scream, as you already know. When Harriet and I parted from the Castellan's Walk, she rang along the corridor – heading for the servants' quarters. By the time I reached the courtyard, Hawker was by the body and crying for help. So I rushed over, but he did not see me until I was level with him. Meanwhile, Sir Tristram hurried from the same tower of the gatehouse that I saw him take earlier. And yes, he did seem…well, _excited_ , thinking about it. But he didn't say much – even when I asked him if he had witnessed what had happened. After that, I did not get much chance to speak to him – with the police arriving."

"But he said something?"

"He told me he had been on the north ramparts when he heard Miss Boyd scream as she fell – but that he had not seen what had happened. I took him at his word." Captain Kendrick sighed. "Evidently I was foolish to do so. Now the man is dead – and maybe it is somehow tied to Miss Boyd's death. Well, I wish you gentlemen good luck in getting to the bottom of this…ghastly business. Before Harriett or another innocent life is lost to whatever horror stalks this castle!"

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

After Holmes had finished with the Captain, we left his room, to find Inspector Hopkins waiting for us outside. He looked anxious.

"Well, Mr Holmes," he said. "Are we any closer to finding out who killed Sir Tristram? And who was responsible for Violet's death?"

"I think so," Holmes answered suavely. "It is a tangled skein – but we now know that Captain Kendrick had nothing to do with your niece's fall, Inspector. Now time is getting on. I think we have finished questioning suspects for tonight – unless you wish to do more, Inspector…?"

"No. I will let Lord Cavendish and the others know that they can now retire."

"And where do you want me, Holmes?" I asked. "To stay in the castle overnight?"

"No, Watson," he answered, after some consideration. "Please collect your suitcase and bring it out to the trap which Hawker is preparing for us in the courtyard. I'll meet both of you two gentlemen there when you are ready."

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

When Hopkins and I arrived at the courtyard, a little later, I passed my case to the driver – one of the castle servants. However, Holmes bade him to wait a few minutes, whilst he took the Inspector and myself to the foot of the north ramparts, where they met the keep. We were dimly illuminated by the gas-lit lanterns set on the walls of the main apartments opposite us. Holmes measured a spot by striding out from the wall by three paces, and then tapped the thick grassy area with his stick, pointing out that this was the spot where – according to Inspector Mackenzie's data – Violet Boyd had been found. I mentally noted the exact site - and I even felt the ground, after Holmes had done so, himself. The ground was not particularly hard or soft.

Next, Holmes stepped over the low workmen's barrier that was set in front of the crumbling steps leading down from the ramparts, and he urged us to follow him. "The steps are safe enough if you keep to the left side, gentlemen," he declared.

Hopkins switched on his torch, and aimed it at the steps. Gingerly, we complied. Once we were on the battlements, I shivered. The temperature was dropping – and looking out beyond the western curtain wall, I spied mist forming out at sea. A gull screeched as it flew by the castle, adding to the unnerving atmosphere of the grim castle.

Despite our duty to solve the mysteries that we had been presented with, I was looking forward to leaving this semi-ruined fortress of tragedy.

With the Inspector's torch, Holmes carefully searched the stonework on the ramparts and the parapet, in the dark. After reaching a point roughly halfway between the keep and the gatehouse, he gave a triumphant little cry.

"Ash from and Indian cigarette, I believe," Holmes announced as he felt the grains in-between his fingers. He passed the remains over to Hopkins, who had learnt from my friend, and was now sliding the ash into an empty envelope taken from his jacket.

The Inspector's eyes were wide as a look of insight passed across his face. He quickly pulled out a pouch containing the gathered possessions taken from the late Sir Tristram. From this, Hopkins examined an unsmoked cigar.

"It's the same brand, Mr Holmes! And we're standing in a sealed-off area of the northern ramparts. No one is meant to have been standing here…"

"Quite so. And yet the ash is still dry, if rather scattered. There's been no rain along this stretch of the coastline since about last week. Someone has been smoking here during the last few days. And the brand is an expensive one. Those factors rule out the workmen. Therefore…"

"Sir Tristram was smoking _here_ , on the night Miss Boyd died!" I exclaimed. " _He_ was the shadow on the battlements, witnessed by Miss Cavendish!"

"He caused my niece's fall?" Hopkins frowned. "Then his death was some sort of revenge killing?"

"No, Inspector." Holmes walked on a little, towards the Barbican and gatehouse, and pointed out to us the occasional small deposits of cigar ash. We followed, walking slowly and carefully along the crumbling stonework, until we all climbed over the barrier at the far end of the battlements, set up close to the gatehouse. Holmes came to a halt, and examined the walls and stonework beneath us. He then straightened up, stared back at the keep behind us, and finally leaned on his walking stick – his face etched in thought.

Hopkins and I stood silently and patiently – both of us knew by now my friend's dislike of interruptions when his brilliant mind was attuned to a particular problem.

Finally, he slammed the heel of his palm upon the jutting part of the battlements besides him. Holmes laughed.

"Now I understand! Gentlemen – turn around and tell me what you see!"

Hopkins and I did so. The brooding, gaunt face of the keep was dimly lit from the few lights in the courtyard. I said as much to my companions.

"Hopkins! Look closer at the keep," said Holmes. "What is there on it?"

"One of those old archways that has no glass in," Hopkins replied. "It is half-way up the tower."

"Indeed. It is totally open to the elements. And the only other window on the keep that is visible from inside the castle is the one that faces the centre of the courtyard. That is boarded up. But the wood has rotted – and a thin gap now shows. I have observed that earlier."

"What are you driving at, Holmes?" I asked him.

"Think back to your examination of Miss Boyd, doctor. The ribs and legs were broken! Now how high are we presently above the courtyard? Not even twenty feet, I believe. We've been working on the assumption that Miss Boyd fell from the north ramparts. Why should a fall from such a limited height lead to that amount of damage to her bones – especially when she landed on the grass?"

Realisation slowly spread through me. It was like watching, and feeling, the first rays of dawn. "My word…! She fell from open window of the _keep_! But that doesn't mean Sir Tristram could not have killed her – does it?"

"Well, let us consider the facts as we know them. Workmen are renovating the older parts of the castle, when so-called 'poltergeist' activity kicks off. This is exactly a week ago. The workmen are occasionally struck by small stones, from the direction of the corridor where the bizarre writings later appear, two days later. No one is caught for creating the 'ghostly activity' or for the writing of the messages. But we now know there is a secret door in that vicinity.

"Let's summarise further. Lord Cavendish immediately calls a halt to the renovations that he ordered in the first place. The workmen leave on the day after the night that the 'ghostly messages' appear. Then, on the following night, the previous séance takes place. During that evening, Captain Kendrick and Sir Tristram go their separate ways when performing their ghost vigil. The baronet heads for the gatehouse, over here. The Captain goes to the other side of the courtyard, and is at the doorway to the Castellan's Walk, when he believe he briefly sees a light coming from the direction of the keep. However, he dismisses it – and he is then in the company of another person, in the said corridor when your niece dies, Inspector."

"And Violet goes into the keep…, because she sees something, herself? Only to fall from the high, open arched window – and land on the courtyard, where the keep meets the ramparts?" Hopkins whispered.

"Precisely! In the meantime, Sir Tristram – who was smoking here, as the evidence has proved – sees something as well! Still smoking his cigar, he makes his way along the sealed-off area of the north ramparts – heading in the opposite direction to that we have just taken. He walks westward towards the keep – all the time dropping flakes of ash. He hears _both_ of Miss Boyd's screams, sees her fall – and he stops at the top of the stone steps, close to where your niece landed on the ground. In the dark, he is just seen as a moving shadow by Miss Cavendish, who has rushed out over to her unfortunate friend. The girl flees the scene with the ruby that was held in Miss Boyd's tight grasp. Then… Of course! The note we found on Sir Tristram's body! _'We will discuss terms for the jewel'…_ "

"Blackmail!" I announced brightly. "Sir Tristram must have seen who was in the keep! This mysterious person rushed out of the keep, to retrieve the ruby from the deceased young woman – and in doing so, exposed themselves to Sir Tristram's watching eyes! He was blackmailing them, in exchange for his silence…"

"…and pretended to have the Wexford Ruby as a bargaining chip!" Hopkins concluded.

"Quite so." Holmes smiled at us both.

"But the keep was searched by Inspector Mackenzie's men, when they opened the door from this courtyard!" Hopkins objected. "Nothing of importance was found – and they left the keep as they found it."

"That would have been some time after the tragic event," Holmes muttered. "Time enough for our birds to flee the nest – or at least hide."

I heard the horse in the courtyard snort with impatience.

"Our drive is still waiting, Holmes," I pointed out.

"Indeed. Get into the trap, Watson. I will just have a few words with the Inspector here – then I will join you."

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

After about a minute, Holmes and Hopkins finished their brief conversation. Hopkins looked dubious, but nodded nevertheless. They both then descended the steps leading down from the gatehouse, as I had before them – and the Inspector bade me goodnight. He then hurried off to join Sergeant Young at the scene of the baronet's murder.

Next, Holmes went over to the driver and whispered something to him. I heard the _clink_ of coins.

The driver expressed something which I did not catch, but it was clear he was reluctant about whatever Holmes had requested. However, my friend evidently persuaded him, for in the next minute Holmes got into the trap with me, and we set off, passing underneath the gatehouse. The driver called out 'goodnight' to the gatekeeper.

Outside of the castle, we headed along the track that connected the building with the minor road – which in turn would join onto the main highway. In the distance before us, the land rose to meet the great hills and mountains of the Lakeland, now visible only as vast, dark outlines against the eastern horizon. Just to the south was the hamlet of Tarminster, where the street lights shone steadily in the cold November night air – whilst some miles to the north was our current destination of Whitehaven.

Except that it was not.

When the trap reached a bend in the track that took us behind the cover of trees, Holmes called out.

"Here will do!"

The driver stopped the horse, and Holmes urged me to get down. Puzzled, I followed his example and got off. After a pause, the driver continued onwards, and turned left onto the highway.

"Holmes – my luggage…!"

"…will arrive safely in Whitehaven, old fellow. I paid the driver handsomely. But we must hurry!" He started off with a brisk walk, heading for the woods that lay in-between the track way and the nearby coast.

"Now where are we going?" I grumbled, shivering inside my coat. The air was turning damper. Mist was beginning to form, rolling inland – and I could hear the faint roar of the waves from the Irish Sea, not far away. "Holmes! Hold on. I should tell you that I thought I saw someone outlined in the porch way of the main hall, watching us whilst we were on the ramparts!"

"I saw that figure too, Watson," he replied. "As to our next destination, I will soon explain – when I am sure that no one will be able to see or hear us!"

We had now entered the woods that bordered the northern side of the castle. Holmes urged me to take cover with him, behind a thicket of bushes, from where we could watch the entrance to the castle.

"It's important that we don't make any noise now, Watson," my companion whispered to me. He held up a finger, to emphasise the point.

I nodded, to show my compliance.

"One of the interesting accounts that Inspector Mackenzie had to say to me, was that a young courting couple from the nearby hamlet were in these woods three nights ago, after midnight. That is to say, the night after Miss Boyd's death – and the night before Miss Cavendish came to see us. This couple saw a hooded figure walking through the woods, and approach a mound close to the exterior wall of the keep. The figure vanished into the mound – or so the witnesses stated."

"My word! But you are not likely to state it was a ghost, are you?" I whispered back. "The séance that I attended tonight, and the warning of death – before Sir Tristram's murder… Those things were bad enough!"

Holmes smiled in the gloom. Here, the gas-lit lights from the castle entrance provided the only source of illumination.

"We have already deduced one secret door in the castle, my dear Watson. I suspect there is… Hush! Heads down! Someone is coming…"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

 **The Horror Of Tarminster Castle**

A figure had slipped out from the castle entrance, and it was now soundlessly making its way across to the tree line. Holmes patted my arm, and we followed the cloaked apparition through the night-shrouded wood as silently as possible.

After about a minute, our quarry stopped in a small clearing. We quickly hid behind cover, as the hooded shape turned its head to ascertain that it was alone. Then, satisfied, the strange figure knocked twice on a broad oak – then paused and rapped twice more on the bark.

Nothing happened at first. I strained to hold myself still as the familiar thrill of stalking in Holmes's company gripped my heart. In the still silence that had fallen, I could hear only my companion's light breathing and the thumping within my chest, given my apprehension over what we were dealing with.

From somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted.

Suddenly, another dark-cloaked apparition emerged from the cover of the nearby trees. It was carrying a rucksack of some kind.

The two figures met in the centre of the clearing, as the pair hurried over to each other. Both of them threw back their hoods – and I sucked in my breath. The shorter hooded one that we had followed was none other than the cook, Lillian Vaughan. The other was a balding man of similar years – and the physical exchange of affection between the two, followed by the snatches of conversation I managed to overhear, left me in no doubt as to his identity.

"You are late, Lillian! We were meant to meet at half-past eleven. It is now nearly midnight!"

"It could not be helped, my darlin'! Holmes had arrived! He and his doctor friend have only just left the castle. And the area around the secret door in the Castellan's Walk is guarded – as we feared it would be, followin' Blanchard's death!"

"He's done for, then? Good. What is to happen now? I was to wait here for instructions, remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember, Sebastian! We are to escort our guest out of the castle. Now we must alert him. He doesn't know that Holmes was within our walls. And I don't know if he got the jewel back, when Blanchard got what was coming to 'im. I used my skeleton key to access Blanchard's room when no one was about. It ain't in there…!"

The two of them left the clearing together, both clearly agitated. Holmes nudged me, and we followed the couple through the gathering mist, as they weaved through the wood and stopped at the mound that provided the base to the outer aspect of Tarminster Castle's keep. Mrs Vaughan, after casting a last glance around, brushed aside a dusting of twigs and earth on top of what had to be a trap door – which they lifted. Then, with the man lighting a small lamp he had with him, they disappeared into the earth itself – their departure masked by the neighbouring bushes and trees.

Holmes and I waited for some moments, to ensure that they were not about to re-emerge – then we dashed over to the trap door. There was a metal ring handle set into it. Although somewhat heavy, we soon lifted it ourselves.

"Before we go in, Holmes…," I breathed. "…I assume that was _Mister_ Vaughan?"

Holmes lowered the trap door before addressing me. "It was, Watson. He is, as you found out, a shopkeeper. Specifically, he is a jeweller. And Inspector Mackenzie has held suspicions that he is also a forger."

"The ruby in Violet Boyd's hand…," I muttered, realising.

"…has been tested, and found to be genuine, Watson! However, I showed it to Lord Cavendish, after he had calmed down somewhat from seeing an uninvited guest or two within the castle. He recognised the jewel straight away as the Wexford Ruby – and he rushed over to the vault with Inspector Hopkins. They came back with a duplicate ruby lying in the vault – in the place where the original was placed. Hopkins now has this second jewel – whilst he gave the original to Miss Lebrun to look after, after consulting with me. No use placing the ruby back in the vault, only to risk being taken again by our thief."

"My word… Then the duplicate is the fake…"

"Quite so. Someone took the original over to the keep. And Violet Boyd saw what was going on, when she entered the keep via the boarded-up door in the courtyard. Remember, Hopkins told us there was a big-enough gap for people to squeeze through. Inside, she seized the real gem – only to suffer the consequences for her interference. Now, we should follow the Vaughans…"

"Wait! Who is this 'guest' that the Vaughans were referring to?"

Holmes gave me an expression that made me realise his mind was troubled. "I do not yet know, my old friend. I should wager that it was the hand that stabbed Sir Tristram. Anyway, I mean to find out – by the use of my own eyes. Now, let us get this trap door opened up again…"

We did so, to reveal a set of stone stairs leading down into the mound, before leveling out. The dark, damp and dreary tunnel – lined with stone – that we followed, took a couple of turns before opening into an airy chamber.

Hearing voices, Holmes and I paused. Peeping carefully around the opened, half-rotted door, we both found ourselves gazing upon a dusty and ramshackled torture chamber – complete with wall shackles, a rack, various rusting instruments, and even an iron maiden. As we cast our eyes around the various, disturbing apparatus, we both took in the crumbling stonework of the nearest visible wall. To me, it did not look at all to be very stable.

In the torture chamber were three people – the Vaughans, and a third figure who was sat on the floor, his back to us. The latter individual was eagerly devouring what appeared to be a small joint of wrapped meat.

Immediately, my mind flashed back to Mrs Vaughan being caught stealing food from the castle panty, five days ago. Had that meat just come from the castle too? How many times had the cook smuggled food out, and had _not_ been discovered doing so…?

The only illumination in the room came from three lanterns – one being the Vaughans', and the other two hanging on hooks set into the walls.

"We must hurry, sir," Mrs Vaughan was hissing to the seated figure. "I know you've been starvin' – but it couldn't be helped. We need to move now!"

Holmes whispered into my ear. "Get your revolver ready."

I nodded grimly, to show I was keen to get the business done with.

"Go!" Holmes burst into the chamber, followed promptly by myself.

The three occupants of the room shot their faces around, in surprise. Mr Vaughan took a couple of steps forward – only to freeze upon seeing my army revolver pointed at him.

"No! It cannot be!"

Never before had I heard Holmes sound so shocked. The seated man had risen and presented his face to us upon twisting himself round sharply. I stiffened, stupefied by the sight. There was a horrific burn mark marring the man's right cheek – and the flesh of his right ear was disfigured, having almost _melted_. The startled expression on that terrible visage soon changed into a glare of hatred.

But what had possibly unnerved me most – besides the ghastly appearance of the dark-suited, and gloved, man – was that despite his burns, I was easily able to recognise the melodious voice and the middle-aged, once-noble features as that of Isaac Stroud.

"So, Mr Holmes!" the occupant of the torture chamber rasped. "One minute I'm being warned that you were in the castle – the next minute you and your puppy dog, Watson, show up like the accursed phantoms that you are! But I can see that for all your reasoning, you did not deduce me being here!"

"I too, am human – after all…," Holmes muttered. His voice rose an octave. "That's right! Back against that wall with the others, Mr Stroud. Mind the cracks in the stonework, though! Watson – if they come too close again, you can do more than point your revolver at them! So, Stroud – the explosion of the Friesland left its mark on you, despite you surviving the blast! Drifted ashore on the wreckage during that night, did you?"

Stroud nodded. "When I regained consciousness, I found myself lying on a chuck of debris. Luckily, Vaughan here – a stranger passing by on the shore – discovered me on the beach. He was able to fetch the doctor I requested. A local doctor who was already in my employment. I was thus treated – and recovered as best I could."

Despite the shock at seeing the master criminal alive again, my mind was able to make some sense of what Stroud was saying.

"Dr Phelps… He is the agent you are referring to," I muttered.

Stroud raised an eyebrow, and then burst out laughing. "Oh, very good, Doctor Watson! After all these years of hanging around Holmes, you finally prove to me that you are not merely the unimaginative clod you come across as, in your written case accounts!"

I bristled at his remarks. "Better to be unimaginative, than to be a callous murderer, Mr Stroud!" I remarked. "It was you who knifed Sir Tristram – was it not?"

The criminal snorted. "He was an opportunistic blackmailer. He got what he deserved!" His hands, gloved so as to possibly conceal more disfigured flesh, were moving towards his coat pockets as he spoke – and Holmes and I moved round the rusting instruments of torture, so we could better watch all three of our prisoners.

"Keep your hands where we can see them!" Holmes ordered. "Now, Watson. Let's get them out the way we came, before the _other_ member of the gang gets…"

"Too late for that, Mr Holmes. Drop your weapon, Dr Watson!"

The sudden, familiar voice, and the cocking of the second weapon behind us, was another shock. Whilst we had both been preoccupied with Stroud and the Vaughans, another person had slipped silently behind us into the chamber from an unseen entrance. I shifted my position slightly – to see none other than Giselle Kaplan, the governess, dressed in a man's brown tweed suit and trousers. She was pressing a musket into the side of Holmes's head.

My friend had raised his hands in surrender. When he spoke again, his manner was calm. But his darting eyes and coiled tension conveyed to me that he was weighing his options – and his opportunities – carefully.

"Ah, Miss Kaplan… There you are! So, we have Isaac Stroud, Sebastian and Lillian Vaughan, and Giselle Kaplan. I am still curious as to who 'H' is!"

I saw the governess narrow her eyes. The Vaughans took a step away from the wall they had been pressing their backs against, but they otherwise stayed still and silent – whilst Miss Kaplan and Holmes conversed animatedly.

"Explain what you mean, Mr Detective!" the governess snapped.

"I _have_ broken your code, you must realise." Holmes smiled. "It was quite a three-pipe problem. I spent several hours of effort, before I translated your so-called 'ghost writing' into the secret communication that it really was. How did it read now? Something like: _'I agree to your terms of payment'. 'Enter castle through secret door'. 'Will meet you at stroke of midnight. H.'_ So I will press the point – who is 'H'? Hawker has done nothing to implicate himself – and Harriett Walden is definitely innocent of any crime here."

"I am 'H', Mr Holmes! My real name is Honora Devlin," the governess announced proudly. "I am a member of the Order of Abraxas!"

I drew in my breath sharply. "Devlin… Fitzroy Hennessy's widow married a man named Devlin," I blurted.

"Ahh…," Holmes replied. He managed a smile. "So that explains it. The Hennesseys built this torture chamber and the secret passages of the castle. Those secrets – unknown to the Cavendishes – were passed down by your ancestors, Miss Devlin. Is that not so?"

"You are too clever, Mr Holmes." Honora Devlin curled her lips.

"Now that I have this data, let's speculate further," my friend proclaimed. "You manage to obtain the position of governess, and so worm your way into the affections of Lord Cavendish. Your influence possibly leads to Mrs Vaughan here being employed. The two of you are conspirators – or became so at some later stage. Thanks to you, Lord Cavendish arranges for the series of séances to take place. _You_ wrote – or rather etched – the messages. And either you or the cook was responsible for the stone-throwing at the workmen in order to… Ah, of course… To prevent this chamber from being discovered by the demolition workers! So, to who was the coded messages addressed, Miss Devlin?"

"They were for Lillian to pass onto her husband here." Devlin smiled broadly. The musket in her hand remained pressed against Holmes's head. "After she was caught stealing food from the pantry, Algernon took a low view of her. Although I persuaded him to give her another chance, he discouraged me from having any contact with someone below 'my more worthy status' in his eyes. Hence, I had to find another way of communicating – and the two of us had already dabbled in codes, unknown to anyone else."

"His lordship thinks I'm filth – he does!" the cook spat in disgust.

"Surely there were simpler ways for you pair to have passed messages to each other, in secret?" I spoke up.

"Oh, yes, doctor. But Lillian knew I would reply, via our agreed method, when her husband wanted payment for agreeing to smuggle Isaac into the castle," Devlin continued. "Besides – like yourself, Mr Holmes – I can't resist a touch of the dramatic. And the appearance of the 'ghost writing' had the desired effect upon dear, gullible Algernon. He ordered the renovation work to be stopped. Later on, at the séance scheduled on the night Sebastian and Isaac were due to arrive, I had my opportunity to 'faint' and leave early. Everyone else was preoccupied – whilst I saw to my secret rendezvous."

"And at the séance, earlier tonight…," I reasoned. "Whenever Miss Lebrun was about to say anything regarding Violet Boyd… You two ladies created misdirection in whatever way you could, to distract us all…"

"No one blew into my ear, that's for sure. I made that up," Mrs Vaughan admitted. "And I made the loud footstep."

"I believe Miss Lebrun to be a genuine medium, yes. But we couldn't allow her to reveal anything of my beloved Isaac here." Devlin's eyes turned hard.

"The Wexford Ruby from the Cavendish vault," Holmes speculated. "That was the 'payment terms' in the first part of the coded message. Ahh…, as mistress to his lordship, you would have had opportunity to take an impression of the vault key – for later copying by Mr Vaughan, the counterfeiter. But how did you create such a worthy copy of the Wexford Ruby, Mr Vaughan?"

The forger gave a short, harsh laugh. "I didn't!" he exclaimed.

"He made a copy of the jewel's _twin_ – the Wicklow Ruby, which I inherited." Devlin gave a smug grin.

"Enough!" Stroud declared in his regal tones. "Holmes is paying for time, Honora! There is still that Scotland Yard Inspector and the police sergeant to deal with."

"Oh, I would not worry about them – Isaac, my love!" Devlin laughed. "I separately gave both men a hefty whack with a gauntlet I borrowed from a suit of armour in the hallway! I can handle myself well in a fight. Does that surprise you, Mr Holmes? That some women can actually stand up for themselves, physically?"

"I think nothing more you _personally_ do or say can surprise me any further, Miss Devlin," Holmes replied coolly. "You intercepted Mr Boyd's invite to Sir Tristram, so to insert that message which lured him to his death by Stroud. And I now think it is safe to say that Violet Boyd died because she became aware of a candle or lantern light in the keep. She entered the ruined tower via a gap in the broken door that faced the courtyard, saw… Let's see… Mr Stroud's burnt face, perhaps? She tried to flee, having already snatched the Wexford Ruby you had taken from the vault, Miss Devlin. Only she paid the price for her intrusion."

"So who killed her?" I croaked, still wondering what the outcome of this dangerous encounter would be. My throat had turned dry with fear.

"Oh, I would have said our old friend Stroud," Holmes considered. "But given that the ruby was about to be passed by Miss Devlin to Sebastian Vaughan, maybe…"

"That is enough, Mr Holmes!" Honora Devlin snapped. "It has been satisfying watching the great detective sweat – but of course neither of you two gentlemen are going to testify against any of us." She nodded to Stroud. "I will let you have the privilege, darling."

Stroud gave a malicious grin. "Let us avoid unnecessary noise, then!" Passing my captured army pistol over to Sebastian Vaughan, the head of the Order of Abraxas reached into his waistcoat and produced a slim knife. Although wiped, the blade still bore clear traces of red – and I shuddered, realising that this was the weapon that had taken the life of Sir Tristram.

"This will be a pleasure, indeed!" Stroud rasped, as he stepped forward to murder Holmes with his weapon.

"Halt! Stay right there!"

Everyone was caught by surprise by that commanding cry. I shot my eyes beyond our party, to see Inspector Hopkins, baring a gash to his temple, emerging from the left doorway of two exits, at the far side of the torture chamber. His pistol was aimed at the governess.

"Drop the gun…Miss _Devlin_!" Hopkins spat, in fury.

I saw an expression of rage sweep across Honora Devlin's face, as she switched her gaze from the Inspector to Stroud. Then she nodded to her partner-in-crime, and she swung her musket round to shoot at the Inspector.

Looking back upon the events, what happened next seemed to unfold more slowly than it actually did. I have heard of people referring to time 'slowing down' at a moment of crisis. This was apparently the case here, as my stretched anxiety finally exploded into action – triggered by what Holmes's own deeds.

My friend struck out at the governess, in the instant before she could level her weapon at Stanley Hopkins – and grabbed her gun arm. Seeing this, Stroud leapt forward to stop Holmes.

"No!" With a bellow that shocked even me, I jumped upon Stroud before the Vaughan's could act. For a few seconds – no more – there were two pairs of struggling combatants, as we all fought for control of the weapons held between us – a musket and a knife.

My intervention sent Stroud crashing into the nearby torture rack, and the lantern there was knocked off. It smashed onto the hard stone floor, and the chamber was left illuminated by the remaining two lanterns only.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Honora Devlin clawing at Holmes's face with the nails of her free hand, as the two of them swung round in a deadly dance – both of their hands locked together over the musket.

In the sudden confusion of action and shifting bodies, both Inspector Holmes and Mr Vaughan (still grasping my pistol) were afraid to open fire in the now dimly-lit chamber Mrs Vaughan screamed out her frustration.

Then the musket – deliberately pointed towards the wall above the Vaughans by Holmes's staining hand – went off.

The deafening 'BOOM' in the enclosed space was bad enough, but the shot had another effect. The dislodged stonework created further cracks in the old, crumbling masonry – and with an ominous rumble, the section of wall broke apart. It crashed down upon those nearest to it, including me.

There was a medley of yells and screams. Undoubtedly, one of those voices was my own. I remember being shoved aside by Stroud as he cried out in terror – then I felt the weight of bricks pushing me back. Dust and rumble filled the air – then a flying loose brick caught my shoulder, bruising it. I went spinning to the floor, disorientated. As I fell, landing on my back, I heard the iron maiden - with its pole - topple over. It landed on top of me.

But it did not land on me.

It stopped an inch or so above my body – not touching my limbs or torso, but instead stayed still, apparently in mid-air. To my amazement, it acted as a shield whilst a portion of the collapsed wall broke against it and fell to either side of me.

From somewhere close, I heard a scream being cut off.

Finally, the last of the bricks ceased moving. As I lay on the floor, dazed and only half-comprehending what had just taken place, I watched and felt with my raised hands as the iron maiden rolled to one side of me – not making contact with any other part of my body. Then it crashed down.

As I slowly recovered my breath in the silence and near-dark that had descended, I saw a blue light on the ceiling. It was a soft, azure glow, about the size of a human head. And – it moves me still whenever I think back to it – for a second or so, I distinctly saw framed by that light the face of my beloved Mary.

She was smiling at me, and I felt a sense of love from the vision of her. Then the light, and the face, disappeared.

For some moments – I do not know how long – I was too overcome to do anything.

The sudden cry of shouting and of fighting from somewhere to my left, alerted me to the fact that the dangers of the night had not been vanquished.

Seconds later, one of the lanterns was retrieved – brightening the room once more – and it was placed besides me.

"John! For God's sake, man. Are you all right!?"

It was Holmes's voice – and I was relieved beyond words to hear it. I did not even mind him using my Christian name.

"Yes… I am all right." I tried to get back up, and Holmes helped me. His expression was grim, and his eyes flashed with barely-suppressed anger. I saw his lean frame shake slightly. In the wavering light, his dust-splattered face was bleeding slightly from where the governess had swiped her nails against him.

"The others…?" I gasped.

"Stroud and Devlin got past the Inspector and I, in the heat of the moment. Fortunately, the musket got buried in the rubble," Holmes muttered. "I am so sorry… My plan to make the wall collapse was a desperate resort. I could have killed you, in my stupidity…"

"Thankfully, you did not." I managed to pat his shoulder. "Where is Hopkins?"

"Hopkins is just here," a familiar voice called out.

Our Scotland Yard ally crawled back up from the far corner of the chamber. His face now sported a fresh bruise – and he had apparently been felled by a vicious punch to his stomach.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! Thank heavens that you survived…" As he spoke, there was a low moan from next to the collapsed pile of stones and bricks close by. We carefully walked across the debris-strewn floor, to find a barely-conscious Mr Vaughan – her legs trapped underneath the tumbled masonry. A quick glance revealed to us her husband's position. All we could see of him was a motionless hand protruding from the bricks.

We quickly got to work clearing the rubble away, but I saw that Sebastian Vaughan's ribcage and skull had been crushed. There was no pulse – and I said so to my companions.

"We have to alert the others…," Hopkins rasped. "Stop those fiends, before they escape!"

"I agree entirely, Inspector." Holmes's eyes quickly swept across the room, and then he retrieved his stick from where it had fallen. Twisting it, he removed the wooden piece at the end, to reveal the blade inside. "Which way did they go?"

"Through that exit – the right one!" Hopkins dabbed at his wounds with his handkerchief. "I finally found the way to open the secret door, after that infernal woman attacked me! She thought I was unconscious after I collapsed – but I saw how she operated the opening mechanism. Even then, I had to gather my strength and my wits before I could master the trick to the door."

"And the sergeant?" Holmes pressed him.

"He also recovered. I sent Sergeant Young off to fetch help. But listen! After Stroud sent me flying onto the floor, I saw him and Devlin go through the door to the Castellan's Walk – but they soon shot retreated back in here, and escape through the right-hand exit instead! I don't know why…. Ah, Sergeant Young!"

The sergeant appeared at the left-hand exit – along with Lord Cavendish, who was attired in his dressing gown, armed with his own pistol. The uniformed policeman had a cut to his temple – and his lordship, supporting the sergeant, looked pale and agitated. He stared at both us and the torture chamber with disbelief.

"What the devil is going on!? Who is that man I saw running with Giselle?" Lord Cavendish bellowed.

"The criminal your lady friend has been hiding in the castle for the past week!" Holmes answered. "All will be explained later. But thank you, your lordship, for blocking off one of their escape routes! I suggest that you alert the others in the castle. Miss Devlin mu-"

"Devlin? As in Fitzroy Hennessey's widow when she married…?"

"Oh yes, your lordship." Holmes declared gravely. "Now you'll have to excuse us. Miss Devlin and Mr Stroud must not escape justice for their many crimes!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight:**

 **A Resolution**

As quickly as it was possible, Lord Cavendish and a recovering Stanley Hopkins had hurried off to raise the alarm, driven by the urgency of the situation. Sergeant Young was not badly hurt, but he was not able to go far. So, nursing his head with a clean handkerchief, he was able to watch over the injured and now-grieving Mrs Vaughan. For my part, I was called over by the sound of Holmes calling for my help.

Excusing myself to the sergeant, I then took the right-hand exit from the torture chamber and hurried past a set of old, decrepit cells – some of which bore evidence of having been used by Isaac Stroud in the past week. Then, following the only way on, I climbed up the stone staircase and found Holmes pushing desperately at the stone door before him.

"Watson! Thank you. The devils have blocked this door from the other side."

Between us, we were able to force the heavy door ajar, and dislodge the pile of stones that had been gathered to hold us back. We found ourselves on the first floor of what had to be the semi-ruined keep, complete with the boarded-up window. At one stage, this could well have been the site of the great hall, I reflected. Before the more modern part of the castle had been built.

With the lantern Holmes had taken from the torture chamber, we were able to see what was around us in the flickering light. The wide, circular chamber must have looked more imposing centuries ago, with tapestries and colourful furnishings in place, and with logs burning in the huge fireplace opposite us. Now we emerged from the hidden stairwell at the edge of the structure and strode across a bare chamber that consisted of cold stone walls and a rubble-strewn floor. The only exit I could see was a doorway that led onto a landing set in-between the flights of an outer staircase. Heading over to it, we saw that the stone steps on our left led to a higher level – whilst to the right, the stairs descended to the ground-level entrance door.

On the small landing of the staircase, Holmes cried with excitement. He had found a dried bloodstain on the stone surrounding the open arched window set before us. We peered through the space, to be greeted by the chill night air, as we stared down into the courtyard, towards where…

"Violet Boyd landed…down there," I breathed, recovering from my exertions. "This is the window…that she fell from, Holmes."

He nodded and pointed at the blood mark. "And she struck the stonework just here, before she passed through the opening. But what do we hear now? Hah! Good for Hopkins! He's raised the hue and cry – and our foxes have nowhere to run, except for returning back here… To the scene of the first crime, no less! Have you your pistol, Watson?"

"No," I answered. "It's somewhere in the rubble of that torture chamber."

"Ahh… The same goes for that musket Miss Devlin threatened me with. But wait! Our friend Stroud has grabbed a sword for himself, I see. From a suit of armour in the gatehouse, perhaps. Let's stay right here."

I saw Stroud and Devlin hurrying back along the fenced-off section of the north ramparts, pursued at a close distance by Hawker and Captain Kendrick. The captain was bearing a shield – possibly from the same suit of armour that Stroud had taken the sword from. Meanwhile, Hopkins and the Boyds' – the couple dressed in their night-clothes – were now running across the courtyard, as they joined in the hunt, pinning in our collective quarry.

"Isaac Stroud and Miss Devlin… Surrender! You are surrounded!" Hopkins yelled. The Inspector's face bore an expression of grim determination that I had never seen on him before.

"Get inside, Honora!" I heard Stroud snap to her. Then the door to the keep was slammed to. "Help me to lift this old chest over to the door! There, that will slow them down!" he panted. "Now – where do we go?"

"Back to the torture chamber - and the exit to the woods beyond it! It is the only way, now!" the governess replied in her agitation.

The two of them ran upstairs, even as the door to the keep was slammed against the chest that the fugitives had used to delay their gathering pursuers.

Stroud and Devlin froze as they reached the staircase landing, seeing us ready to greet them.

"Always on my tail, I see," Stroud rasped. His gaze narrowed – whilst the lady's eyes blazed with fury.

"You're done for, Stroud." My friend kept his voice calm and even. "Put that sword down, and gallantly accept defeat!"

"Oh, if I'm to be captured, let it be for the murder of you, Holmes!" With roar, the disfigured criminal flung himself at us.

Holmes swiftly blocked the first attack with his swordstick, and then leapt back.

I side-stepped – eager to avoid the sweeping blade of Stroud's weapon. But his anger was focused on Holmes. My companion held his own - but was soon forced back up the stairs to the upper level of the keep.

Miss Devlin paused on the landing. She glared at me, as I prepared to grab hold of her. We were both unarmed.

"You would not dare, _Mr Mathison_!" she hissed.

My mind flashed back to the discarded scrap of paper Holmes had found earlier in the library – the one that revealed that one of those gathered had seen through my disguise.

The parlour games hostess herself. The one was conducted the anagram puzzles, amongst others…

I took a step towards her, my face impassive.

Devlin quickly slipped away from my outstretched hand. She ran up the stairs, following her beloved associate as he continued to battle with Holmes, somewhere out of our sight.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

I bounded up the remaining steps in pursuit, feeling tired and short of breath. The roof of the keep lay before me – a perfect circle bordered by the parapet wall, and broken only by an outlying turret overlooking the Irish Sea. The Union Jack hung at an angle from the turret in the misty sea air, and fluttered faintly as the chill of the night made me shiver inside my coat. The sweat on my face began to freeze.

The moon shone overhead – but it was a dim light, straining to cut through the fog that was forming. The moon – and the gas lamps from the main buildings of the castle, on the far side of the courtyard – provided enough light for us all to see to the terrible scene being enacted before us.

Isaac Stroud and Sherlock Holmes were still engaged in their bitter struggle. Both Honora Devlin and I watched, enraptured, as the two men whirled their way through the steps of the deadly dance. Holmes was occasionally catching the criminal mastermind by surprise, and wounding him – but Stroud wielded the sword two handedly, and with a skill that made me recall he was a fencing expert, and so was no stranger to armed combat. Also, his fury was goading him to destroy the great detective, once and for all.

In horror, I saw Holmes – injured and weakening – being pushed back by the force of Stroud's blows. Some of them Holmes was able to deflect, sending the blade of the criminal's weapon cutting into the old stonework of the battlements, close to the flag pole. Finally, the sword sent the swordstick flying out of Holmes's hands. He retreated and ducked to avoid the next deadly 'swish' of the fugitive's blade. Bumping his back against the wall behind him, my friend slipped and cried out. In the next moment, he was down upon the hard stone platform of the keep, twisted to one side.

"Holmes! No!" I yelled.

Stroud gave a ringing laugh, and stepped forward – raising the sword with both hands above his head. "Time for the coup-de-grace, Holmes!" he sneered.

Quickly as a flash, Holmes raised a bent knee - then shot his leg straight. His foot impacted directly into his would-be executioner's knee cap.

" _Yowwll!"_

Stroud twisted backwards and fell. As he landed, he gave another scream.

"Honora! I have cut my shoulder on the sword!"

"Isaac!" Devlin rushed forwards.

I moved, and grabbed hold of her arm – but the governess spun round and landed a rabbit punch to my stomach. Startled, and winded, I fell to my knees and watched helplessly as Devlin snatched up Holmes's swordstick from where it had rolled to, against the battlements.

"You are…a very remarkable woman, Miss Devlin…," Holmes coldly declared, as he tried to scramble to his feet. His voice was thin – and I could see he was bleeding and nearly exhausted. "…but it does…not have to end like this!"

"No more words, Holmes. You are a dead man!" Devlin directed her burning gaze upon Holmes, who was now slumped against the battlements at his side; whilst he fought to straighten himself fully by reaching for the flag pole, close by. Stroud's accomplice then lifted the swordstick high – an awful, murderous gleam etched into her attractive features.

Suddenly, she froze.

The temperature on the roof of the keep had been dropping whilst we had emerged onto it. And as I gasped and grabbed hold of the nearest part of the battlements and pulled myself upon my feet, I saw – just a yard or so away from me – a most peculiar sight.

I had already stated that the fog had been forming in the air around the castle. But the swirl and density of the patch of mist now with us was somehow _different_. An indistinct shape seemed to quickly take form inside the isolated white cloud materializing amongst us. The outline was that of a young woman with long black hair, dressed in a dark, gown-like garment.

The hairs on my neck rose, as – for the second time that night – my mind struggled to take in what my eyes were taking in. I had seen that gown – and those dark locks of hair – before. But that had surely been in the mortu-

The misty, blurred figure seemed to subtly alter. Was an arm now raised? Was something resembling a finger now pointing at the governess?

Devlin turned to face the vague apparition, and screamed. The swordstick fell from her loosened grip. She stepped backwards – and clutched the side of the parapet, as her face turned white.

"No! Stay… _Stay back!_ It… It was an accident, Violet! Damn you, girl! If – if you hadn't sneaked into the keep that night… If you had not grabbed the ruby that I took… I… _I'm sorry for striking you…and making you fall!"_

Devlin had now fallen upon her knees, sobbing. The dropped swordstick lay besides her. I shifted my attention to Holmes. He was slowly righting himself, using the flagpole – his eyes fixed on the apparent apparition between us. Stroud continued to grunt and press a hand against his wound – but he was evidently gazing at the same sight that we were all arrested by.

Then a breeze licked at the mist floating before the bowed governess, and it dispersed. I fancied that I heard a sigh of relief – one that did not come from any of the four people present.

For several moments, nobody moved.

"Holmes…," I finally whispered. "Did… Did you see that?"

"I saw…something, Watson," he replied. Holmes sounded shaken. He took a couple of cautious steps towards Devlin.

The governess looked up at him with her tear-stained eyes. Then suddenly, screaming in frustration, Devlin sprang to her feet, grabbed the stick once more, and flung herself at Holmes.

My friend gave a cry, as he was sent flying back against the parapet. Only the quick reactions of his hands prevented him falling from the outlying turret.

Devlin took a step back, and raised the swordstick again – ready to ram the tip into Holmes's throat.

"Die – Mr Holmes!" she yelled fanatically.

A shot rang out.

Devlin gasped and staggered sideways – dropping her weapon. She felt the bullet wound on her neck, then stared in shock at the blood on her hand. The governess turned slightly, to face whoever had shot her.

I took in the sight of the woman's wide eyes and open mouth for a split-second – then the governess's balance faltered, and she fell neatly into the recess between the battlements, directly behind her.

Stroud's partner-in-crime screamed as she toppled over the edge of the keep.

Horrified, Holmes and I were in time to witness Devlin splash into the sea at the base of the keep's western edge. She wailed as she fought to stay afloat.

And now, we both realised who Holmes's saviour was. Stanley Hopkins quickly joined us at the battlements, his pistol still in his hand. Behind him was Mr Boyd. Both men, along with Holmes and myself, gazed down with a look of amazement and horror at the wounded woman below us.

Before long, it was over. Honora Devlin – Giselle Kaplan – soon disappeared beneath the waves, never to see the surface again with living eyes. The fire of the hateful lady's namesake – the Devlin – had been extinguished by the tide of the sea.

"My god… No time to warn her… I had to shoot – I had no choice," Hopkins breathed.

Despite his wounds, I saw the corners of Holmes's lips curl into a smile. "And I will be forever grateful that you did fire, Inspector! Now, you should find Stroud no longer has any fight left in him, I believe. Whilst you deal with him, Hopkins, I must entrust myself to the doctor's good care!"

I nodded in agreement and moved in to help Holmes. He had hurt his ankle in the fight. Stroud, meanwhile, was silently weeping – dumbfounded by the death of his lover.

Before long, all of us had left that horrific stage of tragedy that had proven to be the scene of one woman's last act.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

Not much more needs to be said for that dramatic night. Lord Cavendish was soon alerted as to the fate of Miss Devlin, and he quickly dispatched Captain Kendrick and a couple of the male servants to where the woods outside the castle met the coast. However, they were unable to retrieve the governess – and her body was finally pulled out from the sea by policemen the next morning. In the meantime, Mr Boyd took charge during the night whilst his lordship was distraught with grief. The secretary allowed myself – plus Holmes, Hopkins, and Sergeant Young – to have somewhere to sleep and recover from the night's events. I recall that I had hardly collapsed into my bed, before I was lost in the realms of unconsciousness.

In my absence during the morning, Holmes (who was now hobbling only slightly) and Hopkins explained everything to Lord Cavendish and the Boyds. With the permission of Miss Lauren, who was also present at that meeting, his lordship finally learnt of the role his daughter had played in exposing the truth behind Violet Boyd's death – and how Lauren had put Holmes and myself on the scent that had ended in so spectacular a fashion.

"We left Lord Cavendish to spend some time alone with his daughter, Watson," Holmes told me, when me met afterwards in the hallway. "That man has been too cold and remote with the young lady, in the time he was beguiled by that hateful governess. Now he realises that he owes her a debt of gratitude."

"I am glad to hear of it," said I. "And the Boyds?"

"Both Mr Boyd and Hopkins actually heard Devlin's confession, when she saw…that mist."

"Then they witnessed the apparition, also?"

"Mr Boyd said that he did – and consequently, he prevented Hopkins from intervening against Devlin sooner. The Inspector… He announced that he was uncertain as to what he actually saw," Holmes's lip twitched.

"Different people have different degrees of ability to perceive spirits," Clarissa Lebrun remarked to us, as she entered the hallway. She smiled at Holmes. "But _you_ both witnessed Miss Boyd's spirit for yourselves, I believe."

"Like Inspector Hopkins, I can only state that I witnessed…something," my friend replied coolly.

" _D'accord_ , Mr Holmes. I will leave you to resolve your dilemma in your own way." The lady nodded. "Just be aware that death is not really the end of life – it is just a point where we stay on in this world, in spirit – or move on. Or even do both things, by leaving and occasionally returning.

"The warning of danger – and the candle falling on the table," I put to the medium. "Was that Miss Boyd's doing? Her ghost, I mean."

" _Oui_ , it was. I thought she was indicating that Sir Tristram was in danger… But maybe she was trying to point out her killer instead, when it apparently tried to point to Miss Devlin, as you now call her? In any case, I believe Violet Boyd's spirit has found a resolution, with her killer having been identified. She will, I think, rest in peace from this moment on. Anyway, you are about to leave?"

"Yes," replied Holmes. "Inspector Hopkins has made arrangement. He will soon depart with our fugitive, for London. I understand that the railways are now clear of the floods. As for the good doctor and I, we will recuperate in Whitehaven for a little longer – then go back home."

"In that case, I wish you _bon voyage_ gentlemen." Miss Lebrun bowed as best as she could. Holmes momentarily doffed his homburg off to her – then bent down to kiss her hand, as did I.

But barely had the medium hobbled out of the hallway, when we met by Lauren Cavendish – who rushed over to us, beaming. I had time to notice that the tears underneath her eyes had dried, before she kissed me on the cheek. Before Holmes could stop her, he received the same show of affection.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson!" she declared breathlessly. Her eyes were lit with joy. "I am sorry for father's loss. I hope that in time he will forget Miss Kaplan – and find a better woman. One who is as worthy for him as mama was."

"I am glad to be of service, Miss Cavendish." Holmes smiled.

"Oh! I just realised… What can I give you for your expenses…? I _was_ your client, after all!"

Holmes bowed to her. "My young lady. Dangerous as last night was, I do not believe I would have missed it for the world! Now that I am certain of Isaac Stroud's capture, that is payment enough for me. All I will ask of you, is that you take good care of yourself and your father."

"I will." Miss Cavendish smiled back, and held out her hand. We both shook it. She then surprised and delighted me by presenting my army pistol to me. "Captain Kendrick retrieved it from the rubble in that torture chamber, this morning," she explained.

"My thanks to him, and to you, Miss Cavendish," I replied.

"Will you still be around for Violet's funeral, next week?" she asked.

I glanced at Holmes.

"I'm afraid not," he announced. "Before long, we will be heading back to London – as soon as the trains are running again. And I have no doubt that business will be waiting for us at Baker Street, given our lengthy absence."

"Then, on behalf of my father and I, farewell. And safe journey to you both!" Lauren Cavendish nodded and beamed at us both once more.

Hawker then came along and interrupted us. "The trap is now ready to take you to Whitehaven, gentlemen," he announced in his reedy voice.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

Out in the courtyard, we passed Isaac Stroud as he was bundled into the police carriage awaiting him – along with a sullen and silent Mrs Vaughan – by the attending policemen. Close by, Inspector Hopkins embraced his tearful sister, Mrs Boyd – before he came over to shake our hands and say goodbye.

From inside the carriage, Stroud glared at us as he straightened himself. In his proud, melodious voice, he made a firm declaration.

"If I break out of prison, you are a dead man, Holmes."

"And many have said as much before – yet here I stand," Holmes calmly replied, with a cold smile.

And with a farewell wave to us from a tired, but relieved Inspector Hopkins, the police and their prisoner departed from the castle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

 **A Three Pipe Problem Solved**

Back in our rooms at the Solway Hotel, Holmes accepted the glass of brandy I had passed to him. He then continued to arrange, on the floor, the components of the strange messages found at Tarminster Castle that had been interpreted as the writings of spirits.

It was late in the day that had followed that incredible night at the castle. I sat down in a chair where I could read the cut-out slips of letters that my friend had drawn up, in order to crack the code that Honora Devlin had devised. I had reminded Holmes, upon our journey back to Whitehaven, that I was not yet aware how he had solved the case – and so he was now complying with an explanation.

"This saga began when Miss Devlin first arrived at the castle, Watson. She had, I found, been recommended to Lord Cavendish by the doctor of the Tarminster parish, Doctor Phelps. The woman was his niece," Holmes began. He sipped at his brandy – then left it on a table, before assuming a lotus flower position on the floor.

"Phelps – who we now know is also a member of the Order of Abraxas," I pointed out. "Hopkins has arranged for his arrest, he told me."

"Quite so. Now, Honora Devlin came into the castle under the assumed name of Giselle Kaplan. As we heard for ourselves last night, her real surname would have rung a bell in Lord Cavendish's memory regarding the descendants of the previous owners of his property – and I fancy that his lordship would not have employed someone whose family may have still borne a grudge against the Cavendishes.

"I believe that Devlin was already an agent for Stroud and the Order of Abraxas, when she became the governess of Tarminster Castle. In any case, by the time it mattered, she was a spy in a strategic position on the Cumberland coast – ready to act for her lover after the Friesland operation if things went wrong, perhaps."

"Which we know they did," said I. "And Stroud confirmed, last night, that he was tended to by Mr Vaughan, who discovered him by chance – after being washed ashore. Despite having never met before, the forger became an accomplice to the fugitive."

"Indeed. To recap, Vaughan was walking along the coast, near to Barrow, when he came across the burnt Stroud. The fugitive asks for Doctor Phelps, and the Vaughans fetch him. By now, it becomes clear to the Vaughans that they are harbouring a criminal. However, they are not exactly favourable to the law themselves. Mr Vaughan has already been involved in a forgery ring, and his wife has a history of petty crime. So much the wife has admitted to Hopkins, under questioning – I learnt earlier today.

"To continue the story, the Vaughans decide to make a deal with the devil. Deliver Stroud to his lover, Devlin, by hiding him in the castle. In exchange, Devlin would hand over the Wexford Ruby to the couple as payment. The forger has already created a copy of the jewel's twin – the Wicklow Ruby. And Devlin, in turn, has already acquired a copy of the castle's vault key for herself.

"So, Mrs Vaughan arranges with Devlin a plan for the exchange, when they meet in the castle. But a problem soon arises. The cook takes some food from the kitchen, in order to feed the fugitive that she is hiding back home. It might not even be her first attempt – but on this particular occasion, she is caught in the act. When Lord Cavendish learns of this, he almost dismisses her – and relents only because of Devlin's influence on him. Nevertheless, he insists on the two women having as little contact with each other as possible. And yet, unknown to his lordship, the exchange of Stroud for the ruby is still planned to take place."

"So Devlin found herself searching for a way to get a message to the Vaughans – via the cook," I reasoned. "And if Stroud was to be holed up, in the secret chambers of the keep, the renovation work had to be halted."

"Precisely, Watson! And so, bearing in mind the séances held in the castle that she herself had brought away, Honora Devlin hit upon the idea of the 'spirit messages', which she promptly etched into those walls, at night. With the advantage of the secret tunnel to hide in, she – or Mrs Vaughan – would have been responsible for the unexplained stone-throwing at the workmen, to make Lord Cavendish believe that the ghosts of the castle were angry at the renovation taking place. The strange messages appearing in the Castellan's Walk reinforced the sense of dread from the 'poltergeist activity'. The plan worked, the workers were 'spooked'. Lord Cavendish called off the renovations – and Stroud would have had a safe place to hide in, and receive the occasional visit from Devlin, or the Vaughans, to help him whilst he recovered and began plotting his future."

"And the code to the messages?" I asked.

"Ahh, yes. From the start, my suspicions were aroused by the format of the writings, Watson. It was certainly peculiar – but too deliberate and arranged to my eye, for them to be anything other than a secret code.

"To keep my account short, I experimented with changing the words and letters around. Firstly, I found that the italicized letters of the first message could be rearranged easily into part of another, hidden message. Let's take the first etching to task: ' **P** ur _e_ _rAge_ _I_ s **ay** Tor **ment** _To_ mY fOe'.

"Keeping ' _I_ ' and ' _To_ ' as they were, the other italics - ' _e_ ' and ' _rAge_ ' - become 'Agree'," Holmes pointed out.

"I see," said I. "Each capital letter resembles the beginning of a hidden word."

"Exactly. Now for the bolded letters. ' **P** ', ' **ay** ', and ' **ment** ', as they appear in their original order…"

" 'Payment'! I exclaimed, sipping my brandy. "And the remaining letters in that first etching, Holmes?"

"Working methodically – and partaking of three pipe's worth of tobacco throughout the entirety of the task - I continued to use the same method I had discovered to all of the messages. Diligently employing a pencil, blank paper and scissors, to cut up and rearrange the letters of the original messages - as you see below me – I was able to form the following words: 'Your Terms Of'. See here."

Holmes presented me with a sheet of paper with the original message. Underneath it was: ' _I Agree To_ Your Terms Of **Payment** '.

"So both the italics and bolded signal letters that should be grouped together, according to their type," I observed. "The italicized letters were the first part of the true message – followed by normal text, and ending with the bolded letters. My word… A three pipe problem, indeed. And Mr Boyd did remark that Miss Kaplan, as he knew her, was an expert in anagrams! So what of the rest of the writing? Did that follow the same decoding format as the first message?"

"Indeed, it did. To save you from acquiring a headache, Watson, the other true messages turned out to be: ' _Enter Castle_ Through Secret **Door'** , and ' _Will Meet You_ At Stroke Of **Midnight H** '.

I smiled. "Which now makes sense. So on the night of that séance, last week, Mr Vaughan brings Stroud to the castle – via that secret entrance in the woods. Meanwhile, Devlin pretends to faint at the séance. She apparently retreats to her bedroom – only to in reality hurry along to the keep, to meet Mr Vaughan and Stroud. She takes along the Wexford Ruby that she has already replaced in the vault with the fake jewel. Only, Violet Boyd, wandering the castle in her ghostly garb, might have seen Devlin enter the keep with the ruby. She possibly also sees a gaslight coming through the keep window. Suspicious, the girl heads into the keep. At some stage, she sees Stroud's burnt face, screams, and gives her presence away."

Holmes had now stood up, and was pacing the room. "So I read it, Watson. And having seized the ruby intended as payment for Mr Vaughan, Violet tries to flee – only to be apprehended by Miss Devlin. The governess strikes the girl on the landing we saw in the keep. Violet is flung back by the blow, falls through the open arched window, and meets her end as a result of her plunge. Lauren Cavendish is close by – and if you remember, Miss Cavendish noted the time of her friend's death as not long after midnight – which fits with the true meaning of the third secret message. However, since Miss Cavendish did not actually see where her friend fell _from_ , she does not realise the importance of the keep in the matter of how Violet died. Nevertheless, Miss Lauren recognizes the ruby that her deceased friend is holding, and flees with it – too scared to stay any longer at the scene.

"Meanwhile – as we have determined from the evidence – Sir Tristram Blanchard is on the north ramparts, close by. He has seen enough to deduce who is responsible for Violet's death, and resorts to blackmailing Miss Devlin. That, we discovered, turned out to be his fatal error.

"When I left Whitehaven to join you at Tarminster Castle, I had just managed to crack the last coded message. Armed with the knowledge it gave me, I hid myself in the castle, along with Hopkins. And I waited for further data to present itself. That came in the unexpected form of Sir Tristram's death. The rest of my approach to this case was as you saw it, Watson. Any further questions?"

"Yes. By the time we got to that torture chamber, you had decided it was Miss 'Kaplan' who was involved with the Vaughans. What made you sure of her guilt?"

"You are right, Watson. I made up my mind when I came across that slip of paper hidden in the library. The one where someone had cracked the secret anagram behind your alias. The fact that the paper was hidden showed that they regarded your real identity as a matter of concern – and they wanted to keep this information to themselves, whilst making sure that they did not have the paper on them when Hopkins and I questioned them and got them to empty their pockets. Now why would they hide their discovery of your real identity, unless they had a guilty secret themselves? That was my line of thought, anyway. As for the governess, the lady's expertise with word games and her professed spiritual beliefs – plus her influence on Lord Cavendish – all added up as suggestive to me that she had the ability to create those coded messages, whilst hiding some ulterior motive from her employer. Anything else?"

I was lost in thought, and finally shook my head. "That about covers it, Holmes. But… I saw and heard things that night that I cannot explain. Casting aside the deceit of Devlin and Mrs Vaughan at the séance, there was the falling candle… Then, the vision I saw of Mary in the torture chamber – when the iron maiden failed to crush me. And later on, that apparition on the roof of the keep…" I then told him of my experiences, in detail.

Holmes took a careful sip of his brandy. Then he put his glass on the mantelpiece and sat down, before leaning forward in his chair. Gazing into the dancing flames within the comforting fireplace, he spoke earnestly to me.

"I will not dismiss all of what you have just told me as nonsense, Watson. I believe that to do so would be to insult your intelligence. As you know, I – like you – saw _something_ that frightened Miss Devlin. Maybe… Just maybe… I should accept the possibility that not everything can be explained by science."

"My dear fellow! I never thought I would hear you say such words!"

"Neither did I, my old friend. However, I am not saying that all that was reported as supernatural at that castle was real. We know now that this is not so. But my suspicions that Miss Lebrun is a fraud have not been proved. And if you really believe you saw the image of your wife – and that iron maiden was suspended, to protect you from the collapsing wall – then who am I to deny you hope that you will be reunited with Mary Watson, in death? But for the love of God, do not publish any account of this story! The public would never see me in the same light again."

"I would wish to write notes," I retorted. "To preserve the record of what happened. Besides, I can always hold back details – or wait until you retire from your profession. I feel the public should know the truth about Isaac Stroud's capture – when the time is right."

Holmes grimaced, and shrugged his shoulders. "As far as the public should perceive me, I am still wary of anything connected to the realm of the supernatural. Now – to change the subject – I see that will be dinner in about an hour's time. I think a stroll along the harbour is in order, with my ankle being as right as rain once more. I fancy that the sea air and the sunlight outside will do us both the power of good, after our latest brush with darkness and death. What say you, Watson?"

"I am certainly in favour of that." I smiled.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

Postscript

And that is the end of my account of the momentous events that we experienced at Tarminster Castle. As I stated at the beginning, Holmes may not be pleased with me revealing all – but now, some thirty years and more after the case described, I am getting old, and I sense that my own time is coming to an end. Besides, Holmes is in his retirement – and I do believe that the facts regarding our sighting of what I still suspect was Miss Boyd's spirit cannot harm anyone now.

Holmes, if you chance to read this account – in the aftermath of my death – please do not bear me any ill feeling. Even in 'The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire', I portrayed you with the cynicism that you displayed at the time – although I am glad that in private, omitted from my accounts presented to the public, your mind was more open to possibilities regarding the supernatural after our experiences at Tarminster Castle.

And as to you, the public, I find myself uncertain what words to end on. Suffice to say that I am grateful to you, dear reader. Firstly, for following my recollections of the cases I had the pleasure of assisting Homes with. And for tolerating my errors in the retelling of them, where such mistakes had been made – such as the incorrect dates of some cases.

When the time does come for me to leave this world, I am confident that my loving Mary, and our son will be there to greet me. Then, we can share in the luxury of spending our time together – time that was denied to us, in life.

Yours truly,

John H. Watson, M.D.

 **Author's notes**

Reasons for writing this story:

I wanted to explore a case –

1) that incorporated spiritualistic elements, as Arthur Conan Doyle was interested in spiritualism – yet Holmes never had a truly supernatural problem that he couldn't explain. I wanted to capture something of the atmospheric feel of the Universal Studio's film 'The House of Fear'.

2) that had a personal aspect for a Scotland Yard Inspector, for once. Hopkins is quoted by Watson as involving Holmes in several investigations – yet I can only think of only three published (Black Peter, The Golden Prince Nez, and The Abbey Grange – all in 'The Return of Sherlock Holmes')! I felt the character deserved further use, as he seems to be one of the more intelligent Inspectors in the original canon.

3) that features the _'shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearby cost us both our lives'_. What a wonderful, dramatic sentence! Rightly or wrongly (if Mr Doyle ever had any story ideas for this case) it hinted to me of an explosion – and I wanted to use this 'unpublished case' from Watson's accounts.

4) that had a strong female villain that Holmes actually has to _defeat_ – not just scare or warn off. Regarding gender balance of villains and victims, there is a dearth of lady villains – and deaths of ladies - in the original ACD canon.

5) that had a location in the north of England – thus making a chance of scenery for Holmes and Watson, who never ventured that far away from London in the original ACD canon (they got as far as the South Yorkshire area, I believe).

6) In addition, this adventure allowed me to explore the possible fate of Mary Watson, and address the buried grief of Dr Watson. His wife was never allowed to step out of the background after 'The Sign of Four' – and I wanted to give her some space in my story.

Thank you for reading!


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